


Desolation Moonlight

by wehangout



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Brief mentions of both Dean/Other and Cas/Other, Cancer, Explicit Sexual Content, Infidelity, M/M, POV Second Person, on a minor character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-21
Updated: 2013-10-21
Packaged: 2017-12-30 01:38:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 54,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1012485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wehangout/pseuds/wehangout
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. Dean's living the good life. He's got his friends, his family, and a kick-ass art class three nights a week. And Cas, the guy who sits next to him in class, just makes things better because he's hot and flirty and damn talented. And Dean doesn't have a crush on Cas; he just totally wants to hit that. But with people keeping secrets from him, Dean's happy life is about to fall apart, and there's a chance he won't be able to handle it alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Desolation Moonlight

**Author's Note:**

> Big thanks to my alpha, Violetcarson, for her feedback, and also to my beta, Katie. Katie isn't even actively in this fandom, but she graciously agreed to beta for me anyway, frequently boosted my diminishing ego, and took my daily emails without complaint. I owe her. 
> 
> And a billion, gazillion thanks to my artist who drew things that made my heart gooey and warm. This is the [Art Master Post](http://nekoshojo.livejournal.com/10941.html) \- go give her some love.
> 
> Written for the [DCBB 2013](http://deancasbigbang.livejournal.com/) All mistakes (and hopefully there are few ... or none) are mine.

**Fact: You likes girls.**

Like, a lot. Boobs are freaking awesome, man; one of the most awesome things ever. Right up there with pie and beer and your baby.

Girls have a hell of a lot going for them; long legs, plush lips, pert asses, smooth skin, skimpy clothes, painted nails, round hips, sweet giggles, seductive whispers, silky panties, and perky, _perky_ breasts.

The boobs are your favourite. Followed closely by the plush lips and the seductive whispers.

But - because there's _always_ a but - sometimes you don't mind guys. In fact, sometimes you outright like guys. Sometimes you make a point of going out with the sole purpose of picking up a dude and spending the night pressed up against hard muscle, rubbing your cheek against dark scruff, gripping and controlling and not holding back.

Yeah, you like guys and you like girls. That's all it's ever been, though; quick, fun nights with dudes who know what you want and are more than willing to give it to you, or girls who want to be told their special and have you prove that it's true. Just one night - nothing more, nothing less.

Problem is, there's this one guy. He doesn't have boobs, obviously, but his lips are definitely plush, and when he speaks, you hear nothing but utter seduction. It makes your stomach clench and your chest hitch and a tingling feeling spread low in your gut … and the _real_ problem, with all of that, is you're not sure you should like it as much as you do.

**Fact: It's not a crush.**

You do _not_ have a crush on the guy in your night art class, and that's the absolute fucking truth.

Sure, the guy has this really cool voice, he does some pretty awesome doodles in his notebook while the teacher talks, and, yes, he has the bluest eyes you've ever seen, but so what? Jo's cat has blue eyes, too, and you definitely aren't crushing on a fucking cat.

Or the guy in your class. Castiel Novak. Cas, who also smells really damn good, has incredibly masculine hands, and stares in a way that makes you a little bit breathless. Cas, who tilts his head in a way that can only be described as cute, all the while looking nothing but sexy in the low-slung jeans he always turns up in. And, yes, Cas, who has plush lips. Cas, who gives you chills when he lowers his voice the way he does.

But it isn't a crush.

"You're staring again."

You look at Jo, try to play it cool. "Man, I don't know what you're talkin' about." Because you definitely weren't looking over your shoulder at Cas, who just happens to be sitting in a booth at the Roadhouse.

"Bullshit, Dean Winchester. Absolute fucking bullshit."

"Jeez, Jo, you kiss your mama with that mouth?"

"Better this mouth than yours." She grins wickedly, and leans over the bar toward you. "Which makes me think, since you won't go talk to him, maybe I should!"

"What?"

"Well, you're clearly not into him, and there's currently no proof that he's into guys at all, so why the hell not?"

Why the hell not indeed. You have no good answer, nothing you can say without giving yourself away, and giving yourself away isn't something you're keen on just yet even if you don't know exactly what it is you're giving away. Not that it really matters when talking to Jo; she knows you better than most.

She continues. "And, damn, he is hot. You ever sit next to him in class? I took his drink order before, and his eyes …" She trails off into a faux-swoon.

You stare at her. "You're insane."

"You're jealous."

"Of what?"

She grins again. "The fact that I've got the balls to go talk to him and you don't. Really, Winchester, you're a goddamn grown man. Suck it up and talk to him already."

"I talk to him plenty, thanks. In fact, just tonight we got to talking about the latest _Die Hard_ movie." You don't point out the fact that the conversation failed miserably the moment Cas told you he hasn't actually seen the latest _Die Hard_. Or any _Die Hard_. Whatever.

You also don't mention the sly looks the two of you share, the occasional touch when sharing pencils, or the almost-constant flirting tone to his voice. You're only two weeks into the class; for all you know, that's just how Cas is.

"A few minutes? Well, boy howdy, honey. A coupla years of that kinda talk and y'all might just end up bein' boyfriends."

You smirk at the way Jo's southern drawl comes out when she's being particularly sassy, but stick to your guns.

"Boyfriend? C'mon, Jo, you know me better than that."

"Right, I forgot I was talking to Mr. I-Don't-Have-Relationships-I-Just-Fuck-People-And- Then-Dump-Them." She lowers her voice in imitation.

You flip her off as she turns away with a tray of beer in hand. "I like how your man voice sounds just like your normal voice."

"Screw you, Winchester. Excuse me while I go flirt with Mr. Sexy."

"Mr. Sexy, Jo? Really? Couldn't come up with anything better than that?"

She winks. "Ask me again when I get back."

You won't ask her, though, because the idea of Jo finding a better synonym for sexy when talking about Cas … well it's not an idea you like so much. If anyone gets to find that synonym, then it should be you because he's in your art class, and he sits next to you, and you knew him first.

_You knew him first_. Goddamn, you're acting like a twelve-year-old girl with her first crush. Only this isn't a crush. You don't get crushes; you get laid.

Jo gets back, eyes glinting and a decidedly evil smile forming on her face. "Another drink?" she asks, all too innocently.

"What did you do, Jo?"

"I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about," she says, before looking at something over your shoulder.

You turn just as Cas seats himself into the barstool to your left. He's wearing jeans and a shirt, and his hair is ruffled and he has a five-o-clock shadow and holy shit he is a good looking guy.

"Hello, Dean."

"Uh, Cas. Hey."

"I thought I saw you up here, but you seemed to be in deep conversation and I didn't wish to intrude."

And Jesus fucking Christ, that voice. It's whiskey and sex and sultry summer nights, and it makes your breath come low and stupid. It makes _you_ stupid, and Cas is so damn beautiful, that you have to look away before you make a complete fool of yourself and beg him to take you home.

"No deep and meaningfuls going on here," Jo interrupts cheerfully, and you're grateful because you're staring and Cas is staring back and it's too much.

"Yeah," you choke out. "We were just talkin'."

"About art class, funnily enough," Jo says, and turns to you. "I asked Cas here what he'd been up to this evening, and when he said he went to a community art class at night, I kinda put two and two together and figured you might know each other."

"Right." And if looks could kill. You glare at Jo, but she just cocks an eyebrow, the beginnings of a smirk forming on her lips, and you kind of want to kill her.

"Anyway. I have some tables to clean, so I'll leave you two alone!" Jo Harvelle, Queen of Subtlety.

Silence follows her departure, and though it's not exactly uncomfortable, Cas is still staring at you and you have to rub the base of your neck just to get rid of the tension going on there. You force a cough, hoping to end the silence, and when that doesn't work, you down the rest of your beer in one go, before saying the first thing that comes to mind.

"What are you doin' here?" You continue, all the while fighting a blush, when Cas simply raises an eyebrow at that. "Uh, what I mean is that I've never seen you here before. And I come here a lot."

"Yes, I figured you must frequent this place often by your friendly demeanour with the bar tender."

"Jo? She's an old friend. Her ma owns this place."

"She seems very nice."

"She has her moments."

Cas outright smirks at this, and you wonder if you really are as obvious as Jo claims. You hope not; you have no problem with making your intentions known - despite not currently knowing what your intentions are - but you'll go about doing it without help, thanks, Jo.

"I've never been here before," Cas says. "In fact, it was very spur-of-the-moment that I decided to stop in on my way home."

And goddamn you're glad he did. You might not know how you feel about hooking up with a guy from your night class, a guy you'll definitely have to see again, but you sure as hell can't stop looking at him, and you sure as hell _want_ to hook up with him. You tear your gaze away, thinking about the class. It's a six week course, you're two weeks in, and you're awesome; you should damn well be able to hold out from hitting on Cas for another four weeks, just until class is over, just until you won't ever have to see him again and have those awkward moments that follow a one-night stand …

Four weeks. You smirk; it's fucking cake, man.

But then Cas touches you, places his hand gently on your bare arm, and you tense up, desperate not to shudder beneath his touch, because _fuck, fuck, fuck,_ how can he have this much of an effect on you already? You force your mind on everything other than Cas and his touch - the old Pontiac you worked on that day, Bobby's face when Bela threw her coffee at Ash, Bobby, Bobby _and_ Ash …

Okay. You're good. You look at him, and he smiles.

"I think I might grab some dinner. Would you like to join me?"

You absolutely do not have a fucking crush on this guy. But you nod anyway, and the smile he gives you makes whatever shit you're about to get from Jo totally worth it.

And then he starts talking, and you realise, very quickly and very embarrassingly, that you could probably listen to him talk about bridges or bees or books for the rest of the night and be happy about it. His voice … it's pretty fucking awesome.

"What did you think of tonight's class?" he begins. "I like that Pamela doesn't treat us like idiots; she knows we all have varying talents, and she works with that. She's very good at her job, don't you think?"

You nod, because it's about all you can do.

"I'm looking forward to when we begin body parts. I've always had a fascination with the human body, and I particularly enjoy drawing them. Especially hands."

You swallow heavily, because Cas is talking about bodies and hands and drawing them, and you have this idea going through you head of posing for him. Only he's not drawing your hands.

"What about you, Dean? What got you interested in art?"

"Honestly?" You clear your throat, hope your next words come out a little less croaky. "I uh, I just like drawing, you know? It's fun and … relaxing." And you can't believe you just said that because, sure, everyone knows you like to draw, but they don't know that you do it if you can't sleep, or get in a fight with Jo, or disappoint your parents.

Cas nods. "Yes, I find it very relaxing, also. After a long day, or an awful family dinner, I like to go home and draw."

You stare at him, not surprised that he gets it, but surprised that he heard what you said and didn't give you shit about it. Jo's your best friend, but you know that if you told her you like to draw when you miss Sam that she'd never let you live it down.

"Yeah, man, exactly." You nod emphatically. "It's like, when I get home after a rough day, covered in grease and exhausted from working a twelve-hour shift to replace an engine on a classic Mustang, I just order a pizza and get out my sketch book. After a while I'm chilled out enough to sleep." Yes, you did just admit to Cas that you have a sketch book.

He smiles. "I do exactly the same … only without the Mustang and grease."

You can imagine him, though, with a smudge of oil along his cheekbone, and yeah, it's not a bad picture. And when you take away the clothes attached to the picture, it gets even better. The guy is hot, and you're willing to bet even hotter once naked.

"I take it you're a mechanic, then?" Cas asks, interrupting the filthy thoughts you might be having about him, and you nod.

"Uh, yeah." And an unexpected bout of shame flows through you - at the stains on every pair of jeans you own, the grease engraved into your hands, and the faint smell of oil that seems to linger no matter how often you shower - because you can tell just by the way Cas sits and talks and slowly drinks his beer that he's probably some sophisticated professor or doctor or accountant.

And while you've always been proud of your ability to fix anything on four wheels, your dad's disappointment at not being _more_ is a constant niggle in the back of your head. Sam scored the brains and went to Stanford, and while it was always pretty clear that college just wasn't your thing, other _things_ were expected - things like boot camp, and training, and fighting in the desert.

You never wanted to follow in Dad's footsteps, and once you started working part-time for Bobby, you knew exactly what it was you did want to do. You turn at Cas, ready to defend your job and how much you enjoy it … which is just stupid because you don't know the guy and don't need to defend yourself to him.

"Doesn't take a lot of brains," you mutter, "but I like it."

He smiles and shakes his head. "I beg to differ. Can I tell you something? You have to promise not to tell another living soul."

"Yeah. Okay."

He leans close and you can smell his aftershave, and goddamn it's nice. "Promise not to tell anyone?"

You glance from his eyes to his lips and back again. "Promise."

"I got a flat tire a couple of weeks back and had to call roadside rescue to help me."

"You're lying."

He shakes his head, eyes wide. "I swear I'm not. I can do a lot of things, Dean - I have my first aid certificate, I speak multiple languages, I even took flying lessons and literally flew a plane - but when it comes to cars I am useless."

"Really?"

"Really."

And that's okay. Well, it's pretty lame that Cas had to get roadside rescue for a flat tire, but it's cool that he's willing to admit it - cool that he's not good at something and not at all ashamed of it.

You smirk, feeling your old sense of pride come flooding back. "Dude, that's awful. I could change a flat when I was ten."

"At ten? Well that is impressive. You must have very talented hands, to be able to work on cars so well, and draw the way you do."

You want to ask him when he saw your drawing, if he sneaked a peak at your sketch book while in class, but you're not willing let the chance to flirting go.

"Dude, the talent in these hands …" You hold them up in front of you, and watch him stare at your long, tan fingers. "… You have no idea."

He smiles, looks away, and grabs at a menu. "Well. I look forward to finding out then."

His words alone send a shot of lust shooting through you … but it's not like you have a crush, or anything.

**Fact: Sunday are for interrogating.**

Every Sunday morning is brunch at the parents, and it's awesome because it's free food and free coffee, and sometimes Jo comes so it's not just you and the olds, but even if it is just the three of you, it's still good. Family is good, and you still miss not seeing them everyday, even after moving out of home five years ago.

But Sunday mornings also mean questions. Questions from Dad about what you're doing with your life, when are you going to buy a house, is that a scratch he saw on the Impala when you pulled up this morning? And, no, there is no goddamn scratch.

Questions from Mom are always worse, though, and this Sunday is no different.

"So," she begins, and you wait patiently, bacon-covered for halfway to your mouth. "Any dates this weekend, Dean?"

You shove the fork and bacon into your mouth, just to give you some time. The same question pops up almost every week, and you give the same answer almost every week, because even if you have had a date, it's really not the kind of date your mom wants to hear about.

Or the kind you want to tell her.

So you chew slowly, making a big deal out of swallowing and having a big mouthful of coffee, and then answer.

"Nope. Not this week."

She purses her lips. "You're not getting any younger, Dean. Don't you think it's about time you found a nice girl to settle down with?"

"Or guy," Dad cuts in, and he might be on your back about doing _more_ , but he's always accepted that you're bi, which is more than you ever expected.

"Yes, or a nice man to settle down with." Mom grabs your hand and squeezes. "Loving relationships - with a man or woman - are hard to come by, Dean. And even harder to make last."

You frown at her, then at Dad. "Are you guys getting a divorce?"

Dad snorts and Mom shakes her head. "No, dear, of course not. I just want you to be happy."

"Right." You squeeze her hand right back. "Well, I am happy."

"Even though you're … alone?"

"Well, as delightful as you're making being single sound, yeah."

Dad chuckles. "Leave him alone, Mary. The boy is happy being single, dating around, playing the field."

You grimace, because your Dad should not say things like that.

Mary sighs. "Okay. But are you sure? I mean, maybe there's someone you're interested in? Maybe you should ask them out next weekend!"

Your mind flits to Cas because it's deceiving and unreliable. And, sure, Cas is hot, but you're not _interested_ in him. You don't even have a crush on him.

You stick another piece of bacon in your mouth, and this time speak through it. "Sorry, Mom, not interested in anyone."

She looks a little dejected at that, but not enough that you're willing to go back on your words, lie to her, and tell her about someone you're interested in. Plus, there's no one.

**Fact: It's going to be a hell of a long four weeks.**

You're so sure that you can go four weeks seeing Cas three times a week and not hitting on him once, that when he arrives to class Monday night and gives you a quick once-over, you're shocked at how fucked you already are. Completely and utterly fucked.

He gives you a warm smile when his gaze reaches yours again and he finds you staring, and all you can do is will the blush away, clench your hands, and fidget in your seat. Damn him and damn that mouth. You dreamed about that mouth over the weekend, knew when you woke up hard and sweaty that it had been Cas' lips wrapped around your cock …

And you really need to sort your shit out, because one night hanging out with him at the Roadhouse does not a crush make. Neither does the dream, or the staring, or that one fantasy you had in the shower the morning after said dream.

"Hello, Dean." He sits next to you, easy and casual, as though it's the most natural thing in the world, and you wonder if you're friends now.

"Hey, Cas. How was your weekend." You're very impressed with how normal you sound.

Cas smiles and begins to tell you about spending the weekend with his brother and being dragged to a strip-club Saturday night. You laugh at his story, not sure if this Gabriel guy sounds totally awesome, or like a bit of a douche.

"I left once the orgy began," Cas says, and he says it so damn seriously that you're not sure if you should laugh or not. He glances at you, and as if he can read your mind, continues. "I'm not even joking. I wish I was, because there's only so much I need to see of my brother, but I'm dead serious."

You frown, recalling the few times you've walked in on Sam and a girl … or Sam and himself. "Yeah, I hear ya on that one. And I bet that's something you both keep from your parents, because who wants to have that conversation, right?"

He smiles softly. "My parents died when I was young, Dean. Gabriel and I were raised by my aunt."

"Oh. Shit. Sorry, Cas, I uh -"

"It's fine, Dean. It was a long time ago." He turns to face you a little more directly. "Do you have brother, Dean?"

"Yeah. Sam. He's at Stanford."

"He must be very smart."

You nod, and grin like a fool. "Totally smart, man. It blows my mind."

"You sound like a proud brother. It's nice."

"Well, yeah, but he's such a little shit, too, ya know? He asked what I want for my birthday, I said nothing. He said he _has_ to buy me something, I told him a case of beer. And what does he do? Forks out way too much money to get me into this class. Sure, I've always liked drawing, but he shouldn't have done that." You sigh and shake your head, and why - Jesus Christ, _why_ \- are you rambling?

"You would rather he saves his money?" Cas asks, and he's giving you this look that just makes no sense.

"Well, yeah. I mean, he got a full ride to Stanford, but my family isn't exactly rich, you know? And Sammy, he only supports himself by working part-time at some coffee shop. He should be keepin' that money for himself, or buying nice stuff for Jess, not spendin' it on me."

"Maybe," Cas says. He leans back in his seat and glances at you out of the corner of his eye. "But I'm glad he did."

You look at him and there's that tightness in your neck again, and the thought of Cas mouthing and licking and nipping it away only makes it worse. You let out a shaky breath and look away, and out of the corner of your eye, Cas does the same.

And it hits you that maybe you're not alone here. You hadn't given much thought to it before - just assumed that once the course was over you would hit on Cas, make your intentions known, then take him home for a night or two and never see him again - but maybe Cas wants you to hit on him, make your intentions known, and take him home for a night or two.

Maybe Cas is just as interested as you are.

You look at him again, and he's staring at you, deep and intense and fucking hungry. But you can't do this now. You can't do it when you'll have to see him again three times a week for the next four weeks, and it will be all awkward and weird and definitely not cool.

Four weeks. Jesus Christ, it's going to kill you.

**Fact: Jo doesn't know how to keep her mouth shut.**

Class is cancelled when you arrive at the second floor of the downtown building on Wednesday, and you're kind of pissed, because, yeah, you _have_ been looking forward to seeing Cas again. Cas, who has plump lips and a voice that makes the hairs on your arms stand up. But also Cas, who you barely know but can't stop thinking about.

Because he's hot and awesome. Those are totally the only reasons.

But Cas arrives just as you turn to leave, and the smile he gives you is small and warm and _friendly_ , and you just want to kiss the friendly right out of him.

"Class is cancelled," you say instead.

"Oh." He frowns, stops to stand next to you and read the sign posted to the closed door. "Well that's a shame."

"Yeah." And because you're worried he'll just turn and leave now that he doesn't have to stick around for class, you say the first thing that comes to mind. "You look good, Cas."

He looks at you, head tilted and an amused smile on his lips, and all you can do is force yourself to stare back and it's a lot easier than it should be. You hold his gaze, as if daring him to look away, but he doesn't. Of course he doesn't, because Cas never looks away first.

But he does look good - damn good, actually, with his faded jeans, black Goonies T-Shirt, and messenger bag that you know is filled with art books and notebooks and pencils. It's good; the perfect mix of nerdy and cool that you might be totally into.

"Thank you, Dean," he says. "You're looking very nice also."

It's not as though you dressed up or anything, but you did purposely pick out the green shirt that matches your eyes perfectly, so yeah, you do look good and you know it. And Cas knows it, so that's just fucking perfect.

You smirk, play at being coy. "Shucks, Cas."

He doesn't fall for it. "Modest doesn't suit you, Dean. I think you know as well as I do just how handsome you are."

Flirting. Cas is flirting with you and all is right in the fucking world. You go with it, more than happy to do so.

"Yeah, modesty ain't really my thing." You pause and throw in a wink when you continue. "You should see me in a suit; now that's something."

"I don't doubt it," he says, and it comes out on such a coffee-smooth murmur that you have to take a step back.

"So, uh …" Nothing. You've got nothing and it sucks that this guy manages to leave you speechless so often, manages to make you blush when you're anything but new to this flirting thing.

"Yes?"

"Beer."

"Excuse me?"

You give an awkward cough. "I, uh, I'm gonna go grab a beer at the Roadhouse. Maybe a burger."

Cas nods. "That sounds great. I really did enjoy the burger Jo brought me last week. Is she working again tonight?"

A very tiny, almost non-existent flare of jealousy shoots through you, but you nod. "Yeah, she'll be there."

"Wonderful." He begins to make his way down the hall he just previously arrived in, and all you can do is follow dumbly, surprised at how very, _very_ quickly he accepted your invitation that wasn't an invitation. Not that you're complaining.

"Yeah, wonderful."

You make it down the staircase and outside before Cas starts speaking again. He looks at you, eyes bright and blue in the early evening, cheeks flushed with the sudden chill, and you want to touch the pink skin. Press your palm against his glowing skin as the streetlamps light up and everyone bustles around you both. It's still busy on the street, with people on their way home from work, but you don't care; you just want to touch.

Instead you turn and begin the walk to the Roadhouse. It's a short walk, and once the two of you clear the busy main street and turn toward the Roadhouse, Cas begins to speak.

"What have you drawn recently?"

"Oh." You look at him in surprise, and shove your hands into your jacket pockets. "Just shitty stuff, you know? Cars, trees, uh … flowers."

"There's nothing shitty about any of those, Dean. I'm quite fond of drawing flowers myself."

"Yeah?"

"Yes. I know it's cliché, but they really are very pretty. They brighten up our world."

"Um, yeah, I guess."

He smiles at you, and gives half a shrug. "I just really like nature. It's probably my favourite thing to draw because I can make it what I want and it will still be beautiful. It can snow at a carnival, the sun can shine in the middle of a forest, and a Daffodil and a monkey can be best friends if I want them to."

_Daffodil_? _Monkey_? Okay.

"That's, uh … that's a pretty interesting way of looking at it."

He shrugs. "I got stoned once in high school, and that's what I drew."

"Seriously?"

"Seriously. And it was the worst piece of art I have ever seen. In fact, I wouldn't even refer to it as art. More like … a disastrous piece of shit."

You laugh as you reach the Roadhouse. "So no more drawing while wasted, huh?"

"No more getting wasted, period. Dean, I couldn't pick up a pencil for days after that happened. It was horribly depressing."

And you know you should laugh again, because he's making jokes and it's all in good fun, but Christ, the way he says your name. You shake your head slowly, totally unsure as to what to make of this guy, and pull open the door to the Roadhouse. A rush of heat washes over you from inside, and you wait for Cas to step through the threshold before you follow him in.

Jimi Hendrix is playing on the jukebox, Benny and Ash are playing darts near the pool tables, and Jo's standing behind the bar, grinning at you like a total fool. You glare at her and make your way over.

"Jo."

"Winchester." She looks at Cas. "Hey, Cas! Nice to see ya again."

"You, too, Jo, though I think we'll sit at a table this time, if you don't mind."

You didn't think it was possible, but Jo's grin just gets bigger and bigger until you're secretly hoping her face splits in two.

"Of course. I'll bring over a couple of bar menus in a few minutes. Same drinks as last time?"

Cas nods and heads to a table, and he's either ignorant of, or doesn't hear, Jo's rushed whispers to you. You really hope it's the second, and you can barely make out her excited words anyway, so you just flip her off and throw her a glare before following Cas.

And maybe slow down to check out his ass as he bends over to place his book bag on the floor. Maybe.

"So, Dean," Cas says as you sit down, "should I have the burger again, or would you recommend something else?"

"Can't go wrong with the burgers, man, but maybe add some bacon this time."

"Don't listen to him, Cas," Jo says, because she's Jo so of course she's already hovering over your table. She sits two bees on the table and continues. "Dean here likes to put bacon on everything. Including his ice cream."

"Shut up, Jo, that was one time."

"One totally wasted time that you'll never live down."

"Only because you never let me forget about it."

She shrugs. "As your best friend and sworn enemy, it's my job."

"Best friend and sworn enemy?" Cas asks. "How does that work?"

"It doesn't," you tell him. "Jo's just being stupid."

"Am not." She whacks you up the side of the head with the menus in her hand, and smiles sweetly at Cas. "Dean and I have the same taste in guys. I've never had a boyfriend that he hasn't flirted with."

"I see." There's an interested grin on Cas' face as he says this, and his eyes shine when he looks at you.

"Yeah, and I've never had a girlfriend that Jo hasn't scared off," you fight back.

"That's because none of them were good enough for my best friend!" And, just to make this conversation worse than it already is, she leans over you and pinches your cheek. "My Dean-o deserves someone wonderful and kind and deliciously sexy."

You bat her away. "Uh-huh."

She grins and places her hand on Cas' shoulder. "Someone … someone like Cas here."

You glare at her, and desperately will the earth to open up and swallow you whole. Or swallow her whole. Goddamn Jo Harvelle.

Cas chuckles. "Deliciously sexy, Jo? That's a nice compliment."

"It's the truth, sweetheart. So, burgers?"

You mumble something in agreement, and Cas nods. "Please."

"Right, and should I, uh, hold the onions?" She winks lasciviously, and even nudges your shoulder with her elbow.

"Jesus Christ, Jo."

Cas just smiles and takes a sip of his beer. "No, I'll keep the onions … and if you could add some bacon, that would be great."

You grin and Jo shrugs.

"Hey, they're your arteries."

Cas waits until she leaves before questioning you. "So, Dean, how do you know, Jo?"

That very tiny, almost non-existent flare of jealousy becomes vicious and deep, but you push it down and make conversation.

"We grew up together," you say, and quickly take a sip of your beer. "She beat me up in second grade when I told her girls couldn't play football because they were girls. We've been inseparable since."

He laughs, low and throaty. "A girl beat you up?"

"Hey, man, I'll have you know that Jo isn't just any girl, okay? She's totally badass."

"If you say so."

"I'm serious, Cas. She'd kick your ass if I told her to."

He smirks at you. "Are you saying that if you wanted me beat up you'd have to get a girl to do it for you?"

"I'm sayin' you better be nice to me, otherwise Jo might just have to defend my honour."

Cas nods, smiling easy. "I plan on being nothing but nice to you, Dean."

Well. Fuck.

**Fact: Nothing suits Cas like a suit.**

Friday might just kill you. No, seriously. It's been one week since you decided you could wait until the course was over before making a move on Cas. One week, and already you're reconsidering that. Reconsidering because when Cas arrives to class that night, he's wearing a suit.

There's an ugly-ass trench coat covering it, but it's a goddamn suit, and you wonder if he's trying to be ironic after your comment on Wednesday. Because _damn_ , that is something.

You stare as he makes his way to sit next to you, and take in the white shirt, the black pants, and the crooked tie. And the hair. It's messy and dishevelled and all over the damn place, and your breathing is coming out a little rough because … sex hair. Cas has sex hair.

"Dean."

"Cas." Your voice is hoarse and Cas' eyes darken.

"How are you?"

"You're wearing a suit."

He smiles. "That's not an answer to my question, but yes, I am."

"Why?"

"Things ran late at work and I didn't have time to go home and change."

Right. Of course. "So you wear a suit to work. Everyday?"

"Yes, Dean, everyday."

You shift slightly in your seat, and you know he knows just how in to this you are. "Cool. So, uh, what do you do, Cas?" And you're not even sure if this has been mentioned before, but between all the flirting and teasing, things like work just don't seem as important. Jobs are boring, flirting is not.

"I'm a librarian."

"A librarian. That's …" Hot. Really fucking hot. "Cool. Uh, you must really like books, huh?"

"I enjoy reading very much."

"Right. Cool."

Jesus Christ, can you say _cool_ anymore than you already have? You sound like an idiot, and judging by the heat on your face you probably look like an idiot, too. But Cas, God bless him, just continues to stare at you with that beautiful smile he has, not looking at all weirded out by you when he really should be. Instead, he looks slightly charmed.

He relaxes in his seat, knees spread so wide that his left presses against your right. You must suck in a breath, or tremble slightly, or jump a freaking mile, because he smirks at you like he knows exactly what he does to you, and when the hell did you become so damn obvious? You want to glare, but instead you do nothing, try to play it cool, when all you want to do is wrap that freaking tie around your hand and pull him into you.

And so it goes, through the entire class; Cas' elbow nudges yours when he shifts in his seat, his fingers brush yours when you hand him a pencil he asks for, and he whispers right next to your ear every time he asks for said pencil.

It's too much and it's not enough and you want to scream at how infuriating this whole thing is. You barely know the guy, and, sure, he's sexy as hell, but the few nights you've hung out don't mean anything. Neither does the constant flirting or heated looks. None of it means anything, and the fact that you can't get him out of your head means even less.

Class ends, and you quickly gather up your things. You had thought, previously, of maybe asking Cas to join you for another beer at the Roadhouse, but after all the looks and touches of the last two hours, there's just no way you can spend any more time with him than you already have. Not when you don't get to touch him.

But Cas is unhurried as he gathers his things, slowly placing each item in his bag while you wait for him to get up and move. And he pays you no attention, as if he _knows_ that you're fucking desperate to get away from him because he looks good and he smells good and you just know he'll feel good.

And you can imagine it, too; his hips beneath your fingers, his collarbone against your lips, and his breath ghosting over your cheek …

"Hello, Chuck," he says, and you blink, because what the fuck?

"Hey, guys."

You pull yourself together then, because, again, what the fuck? You're so far gone on how this dude looks and smells and probably feels that you're completely spacing out and _not_ noticing someone approach your desks, and that's so not you.

Except that when Cas is around it totally is.

You mumble a greeting in response, and ignore the raised eyebrow Cas sends you. This is not a crush. This is not a crush. _This is not a goddamn crush_.

"My girlfriend's having a party tomorrow night," Chuck says. "It's her birthday, and she says the more the merrier. You guys should come; there'll be plenty of beer."

You've seen Chuck's girlfriend a couple of times after class, and you're not so sure you want to spend a night partying with her. She's … chirpy. And you don't really do chirpy. The closest you get to chirpy is drunk, and that's on a good day.

So you frown slightly, trying to come up with a decent excuse to get out of going to this party, when Cas speaks up.

"That sounds like fun, Chuck, I'll be there."

"Great!" Chuck genuinely looks pleased at Cas having agreed to go to the party, and you're not sure what to make of the hopeful look he gives you. "What about you, Dean?"

"Yes, Dean, will you be joining me in attending Chuck's girlfriend's birthday party?" Cas asks, and there's something so delightfully dark in the way that he looks at you.

"Uh … yeah. Sounds good."

"Wonderful. We'll see you tomorrow night, Chuck." He grins happily at you as Chuck leaves, and continues. "Shall I pick you up at around eight?"

"Um, okay."

"Excellent." He quickly scribbles something on a piece of paper, and then he touches you, clasps a large, warm hand against your shoulder, and the heat of his skin _seeps_ through the fabric of your T-shirt. If you happen to breakout in goose pimples at his touch, it's totally not your fault. "Have a great night, Dean."

By the time you get yourself together enough to reciprocate, Cas is gone and you're alone in the classroom, with nothing but Cas' number of a scrap piece of paper.

**Fact: It's not a date.**

"Oh my God."

"Shut up."

"But seriously -"

"No."

"Look at you, though!"

You frown, look down at the jeans and shirt you're wearing, and great, now you're panicking. "What's wrong with me? You said this looked good."

Jo smiles. "Yes, but I also said the last seven shirts you tried on looked good. I swear, you've changed your clothes more times tonight than I did for my three last dates combined."

"It's not a date."

"It's so obviously a date."

"You're so obviously deluded."

"Dude." Jo looks so absolutely scandalised by your insistence that this is not a date, that you almost feel sorry for her. Almost. "Tell me how this is not a date? He's picking you up, you've changed your clothes eleven-million times, and you're so damn jittery that it's making me nervous."

"One, it's good for the environment to carpool; two, eleven million is a slight exaggeration; and three, shut the fuck up."

"So you are nervous!"

You brush that off, not wanting to get in to whether or not you're nervous. Which you aren't, obviously.

"Look, Jo, I don't know where the shits you date take you on first dates, but if I was going to take Cas on a date it wouldn't be to some chick's birthday party."

Jo nods thoughtfully. "So you _do_ want to date Cas."

"I want you to shut up."

"I want a million dollars, a couple of hours alone time with the new cook at work, and a lifetime supply of M&Ms, but we don't always get what we want, do we?"

"If I organise a lifetime supply of M&Ms will you shut the fuck up?"

"If you organise a couple of hours alone time with said cook, I'll totally shut the fuck up."

You frown at her. "How the hell am I supposed to do that."

And Jo, who is anything but innocent, blushes. She actually blushes, and you might just take way too much delight in it.

"The new cook might be Benny."

"Benny? The guy we went to school with? Drinks-at-the-Roadhouse-every-weekend Benny?"

"That's the only Benny I know."

"Since when are you into Benny?"

She smirks. "Since he bought me flowers last month when Skynard got hit by that car."

Now that's news to you. You knew that Jo's cat got hit by a car, but not about Benny's gesture … or his apparent interest in Jo.

You frown at her. "Are you guys gonna get together? Because that would be really gross."

"Shut up." She shoves your shoulder just as a text comes through on your phone. "Aw, he's not coming to the door?"

"I told him just to text when he got here."

"But I was hoping to give him the talk about keeping his hands to himself and protecting your virtue … wait, you don't have any virtue."

"You're funny. And right."

She grins. "So, this isn't a date, but at least admit that you like him. Go on! I know you do."

"He's okay."

" _He's okay_ … I'll take it." She nods happily. "Mind if I hang here and eat your frozen pizza?"

"Go ahead."

You shove your phone in your pocket, take one last look in the mirror, and throw on a cocksure grin for luck. Not that you'll need it, because you don't plan on getting lucky and it's not a date.

You turn to Jo. "See ya later."

She slaps your ass on your way out. "Have fun on your date."

"It' not a date."

**Fact: Cas is a pretty drunk.**

He stares at you from his place against the opposite counter, and somehow, now that he's got a couple of drinks in him, Cas is even prettier than usual. And maybe you've had a few drinks of your own, because _pretty_ isn't an adjective you'd normally use, but it fits. His smile is graceful and content, his eyes shine and shimmer with something you desperately want to call lust, and his skin looks so warm and delicious that you want to lean forward and lick a stripe up his neck.

But you don't. You lean back and eye the tiny kitchen you're standing in, wonder how it is that Becky seems to have as many friends as she does, think about the Mustang you worked on the day before, make plans to call Sam tomorrow, remind yourself that you've got your weekly breakfast with the olds in the morning, but don't - absolutely _do not_ \- try to figure out why Cas is staring at you the way he is.

You look at everything but him - the ceiling, the floor, the personalised magnets on the fridge - and you're reading every word on the label of Jack next to you, when he speaks up.

"Dean?"

"Yeah, Cas?"

"Is everything okay?"

You don't even have to look at him to know he's smiling; you can hear the damn, handsome thing in his voice. You scowl and meet his gaze.

"You're staring at me."

"Am I?"

"You've been staring at me for a while now."

And that smile just gets bigger and bigger. "Well, Dean, it's almost hard to not look at you … you're very easy on the eyes, you know?"

Flirting. Right. The staring weirds you out - in a way that totally turns you on - but flirting you can handle. Flirting you can do, and do well.

You smirk, and decide to be direct. "Flirting now, Cas? I might begin to get the wrong idea if you're not careful."

Cas says nothing, simply continues to smile, and you look away because maybe you're not so good at flirting after all. You shift on your feet, and follow Cas' lead when he takes a drink. You lift the beer to your lips, finish the bottle, wishing all the while for something stronger, something better, something that can erase all the awkward you feel.

"Though I do wonder," Cas finally says, "if perhaps I should be insulted."

You look at him again, and though he's still smiling, a very solemn eyebrow has been cocked. You frown, not entirely sure how serious he's being. "Insulted?"

"Well, I'm finding it rather difficult to look at anything but you, Dean, while you seem to be purposely looking at everything but me."

"Oh. Right. Yeah." You lean back and rest your hands on the counter behind you.

There's something seriously wrong with you. Like, an illness, or something. Cas is flirting, fishing for compliments, making his thoughts on your appearance very clear, and you … Jesus, you're just trying to stop your sweaty hands from slipping off the counter. You're not drunk enough to be falling apart like this, not at a pair of pretty eyes and lips kissable enough to make your mouth dry.

Cas chuckles softly, and you realise you've been staring. Great. Just fucking great.

"You're out of beer," he says, and was his voice always that rough?

"Huh? Oh, yeah, I guess I am."

"Fancy starting on something a little stronger?" He nods towards the Jack Daniels next to you.

You chuckle, relief flowing through you; a couple of shots of that down the hatch and you'll be fine and dandy. "Sounds good, man."

He makes a small noise in the back of his throat and steps toward you and doesn't stop until he's right up there in your personal space. And you stare at him, unable to say a damn thing about it because you like it. A lot. So you just look at him, stare in to those impossibly blue eyes, and wonder - _hopehopeyoureallyfuckinghope_ \- if he's going to kiss you.

"I believe the glasses are behind you," he says, and there's an oval of space between your waist and each arm, just enough room for his hands to slip through and grab at the glasses behind you. And he's close. So close that the tips of his shoes are against yours, the materiel of his jacket brushes the materiel of your shirt, and his breath floats over your neck …

"Cas."

"Yes?"

If you turn your head to look at him, your lips will touch his. If you breath a little deeper than necessary, you chests will press together. If you just suck it up and say something, he might make that first move.

But he moves back, because Chuck and a couple of other guys come barrelling into the kitchen, laughing and joking and carrying on like they haven't just effectively killed the raging boner you had. And, to top it all off, Cas winks at you as he grabs the bottle of Jack and leaves the kitchen, without the glasses he went to all that effort for.

You sag against the counter and let out a long breath. Shit.

"Having fun, Dean?"

You look at Chuck's drunk, flushed face and nod. "Sure, man. Uh, excuse me." Because Chuck might be an okay guy, but you'd rather find out where Cas went.

Cas, it turns out, is waiting for you at the entrance to the hallway. He catches your gaze and lifts the bottle of Jack in invitation. You grin and follow him down the hallway, no longer just looking forward to a couple of shots of whiskey that will calm your nerves, but also whatever is going to happen between you and Cas. Because something has to happen.

The two of you have been tiptoeing around this flirting and touching and staring thing for weeks now, and you're more than ready to move things along. Screw waiting the three weeks for the course to finish. You want Cas, and you want him now.

He sits at a top end of the T-shaped hallway, back against the linen closet. You know it's the linen closet because Becky had insisted on giving you both a very detailed grand tour when you first arrived. Annoying as it was at the time, it seems to have come in handy now, with Cas having found the place furthest away from the kitchen, living room, and bathroom.

Privacy. Your breath hitches with the mere idea of it.

You sit next to him, stretch your legs out in front of you, next to his, and try to calm the fuck down.

"Drink?"

He's smirking at you, so you take the bottle and down what you can, without even a hint of a cough. You hand the bottle back to him with a raised eyebrow, and he does exactly the same. Damn. And wow.

He chuckles softly and takes another drink, and you watch his Adam's apple bob with the movement, watch the way his lips rest against the rim of the bottle, watch the small dribble of alcohol that escapes at the corner of his mouth …

When he pulls the bottle away and his tongue slips out to catch the drop of whiskey, it's all you can do not to moan aloud. So you snatch the bottle from him, take three, four, five deep mouthfuls, then let out a heavy sigh.

"Shit."

"Everything okay, Dean?"

You look at Cas. He's smiling softly, his thigh is pressed against your own, and every couple of seconds his gaze flickers to your lips.

"Yeah, Cas, everything's great."

His smile grows and his eyes crinkle. "Tell me more about your family."

Really? _Really_? Well, okay. "Uh, sure. What do you wanna know?"

"What do your parents do?"

You take another drink. "My old man's a fire-fighter. After he left the army he did a bit of construction, but we had a house fire when me and Sammy were just kids, and after that … he just decided saving people was his thing."

"That's very brave of him." His hand rests on his thigh, and his pinkie finger brushes against the denim of your own thigh.

"My mom hates it," you tell him, staring at his hand. "I mean, she's proud, but she worries, you know?"

"Does she work?" Cas asks, before taking the bottle from your hands, letting his fingers slide over yours.

"She sells baked goods around town - you know, the police station, hospital, _Lawrence Chronicle_."

"She bakes them herself?"

"Yeah, her and a friend."

"Would that happen to be Missouri Moseley?"

You laugh and press your leg closer to his. "She comes to your library, huh? You make sure to grab an apple and pear biscuit the next time she comes by. They're awesome."

"Okay, I will. My boyfriend has a soft spot for biscuits - or _scones_ , as he calls them - so …" He trails off, face turning white. "Dean, I -"

You don't even know what Cas says after that - if he says anything at all - because there's nothing but a rushing noise in your ears, a loud whirring that matches the angry pounding of your heart and none of it makes sense.

"Boyfriend?"

"It's not what you think."

There's this strange clenching in your chest, but you push through it. "Really? Because what I think is that you have a boyfriend."

"Well, yes -"

"So it's exactly what I think."

You stand, pissed off and disgusted and offended. Cas has a boyfriend - a boyfriend he had clearly kept secret on purpose. Sure, the look on your face when he said it must have been something akin to disbelief, but his own guilt and shame is more than obvious.

"It's complicated between us," he says, standing up to face you.

"I don't care if it's the fucking Arctic between the two of you; you have a boyfriend."

A long silence before Cas finally nods. "Yes."

"Jesus, Cas. All this flirting and touching … shit, you were practically dry-humping me in the kitchen before!"

"I know."

"So? What the fuck?"

"Dean, Balthazar and I … we no longer share a bed."

Realisation dawns on you, and whatever offence you had been feeling increases by about a million. "Oh, I get it. He's stopped putting out so you hit on me, hoping for a couple of quickies before going back to the guy you're actually with."

And, sure, you planned on only spending a night or two with Cas, but you don't fuck with people who are already taken. And you don't do _this_ \- whatever this is - with people who have boyfriends.

"Dean, no, it's not like that. I like you."

You scoff. "You know what, Cas? I don't give a shit."

"Dean." He looks so annoyed with himself, so disappointed in himself, but you don't stick around to hear what else he has to say. You leave. Leave Cas, leave Chuck's apartment, and call Jo for a ride the minute you hit the sidewalk.

**Fact: Nobody likes a hangover.**

Jo looks worse than you do. You're not just saying that, either; she's a great drunk, a whole lot of fun, but the following morning is never good to her. You, at least, manage to perk up with a strong cup of coffee and a good feed. Jo needs four cups of far-too-sweet coffee, a steaming hot shower, and at least three hours of consciousness before she can function.

"You feelin' okay over there?" you ask, stoping the Impala at a red light.

Jo rubs at her tired eyes. "You're lucky I'm such a good friend to you."

"Of course I am."

"Imagine how depressing last night would have been if I hadn't stuck around to hang out."

The light turns green and you take off. "Uh-huh. I would have quietly and respectfully drunk myself to sleep. Instead I got drunk with you and spent the night playing _SingStar Queen_."

"And sucking at it."

"Bullshit. I kicked you ass." And you really did. Jo's got a good voice on her, but she doesn't have your enthusiasm. Nor did she need the same distraction you did.

She turns to look at you. "Hey, Dean?"

"What?" She's got that look about her, and you just know she's going to ask about Cas.

She surprises you. "Why do you own a _SingStar_ game?"

"I don't. It's Sammy's. Shut up."

She grins. "Yeah, yeah, okay. Maybe we should talk about Cas, then."

"Maybe we shouldn't."

"He's got a boyfriend, huh?"

You flick the indicator and turn right. "Yep."

"Sucko."

"That's one way of putting it."

"Another would be totally lame. Maybe you should talk about it - you know, tell me how you feel?"

You glance at her. "You channelling Sam, or something?"

"I know you better than you think, Winchester. I know you're pissed off."

"C'mon, Joanna Beth, let's not do this, huh?"

She shrugs. "You want me to beat him up for you?"

It says a lot about your friendship with Jo that she's completely serious. It also makes you question just how bad you have it for Cas that you don't even consider it. You don't want to see him again any time soon, but you especially don't want to see him hurt. You say nothing.

Jo's silent for the rest of the ride to your parents, but when you pull up outside their house she says, "I'm sorry Cas turned out to be such a douche."

You look at her for a long moment, not sure what to say. Yeah, you are pissed off, and you're still disgusted and offended. But you don't want to talk about it - you don't want to talk about _Cas_ , because just thinking about him infuriates you and you don't want to think about why.

"Let's get inside," you say, and ruffle her hair. "This hangover ain't gonna cure itself."

Your mom's full of hugs when you get inside, and it's good. It makes you feel good after such a crappy night.

"Look at you two," she says, one hand on your cheek, one on Jo's. "Please tell me you didn't spend the night drinking?"

"Not the whole night," Jo says.

"Yeah, we slept some."

"And did a bicycle race with some fat-bottomed girls who were under some _serious_ pressure."

Your mom frowns as Jo heads into the kitchen, then turns to you. "Should I even ask?"

"Please don't." Because you love your mom, you really do, but you don't want to share the details of _SingStar Queen_ with her.

Breakfast is awesome. Breakfast is bacon and eggs and toast, sausages and hash browns and bagels, Mom and Dad and Jo. And coffee. Lots of coffee. Exactly what you need to cure your hangover and remove any lingering thoughts of Cas. In fact, the only thing missing is Sam.

But then your mom brings out the biscuits and your stomach drops. You've managed to avoid puking your hangover out, but now you're not so sure you can keep your stomach down, and that really sucks because Cas having a boyfriend - a boyfriend who's so damn fond of _scones_ \- shouldn't bother you this much.

It does bother you, though, and you feel a little sick. You don't want to think about the whys of the matter, you just want to get away from all the food that's supposed to cure your hangover but now makes you want to puke.

"Dean?"

You look up to find everyone staring at you, and you're glad you never told Jo all the details of the night before because, glaring at a biscuit? Jesus.

"Yeah, sorry, Mom. What were you saying?"

"I was wondering if you're free for lunch on Tuesday. I'll be on that side of town for an appointment and thought we could meet up."

You smile a genuine smile. "Yeah, that sounds great! You wanna meet at Bobby's or the Roadhouse?"

"I'll pick you up from Bobby's and we'll go from there."

You nod and grab a biscuit, tearing off a huge chunk with your teeth. They don't seem so bad now. In fact, despite the disgusted look Jo gives you as you stuff a couple of bits of bacon in with the biscuit, everything looks just that little bit more appetising.

**Fact: Mondays don't always suck.**

Everyone at work complains on Mondays. Andy always turns up hung-over and likes to bitch about it; Bela spends the first three hours complaining that, despite her pompous - you add that word in yourself - upbringing, here she is working as a receptionist at a filthy garage; and Rufus tells you at least seven times that day alone that his back can't take much more of this shit.

Hell, even Bobby hates Mondays and he's the boss who can do whatever the hell he wants.

But you don't hate Mondays. As far as you're concerned, Mondays are what you make of them, and this is what you make of them - Bela is the easiest person to rile up, and that's always entertaining; Andy always has the best hook-up stories that he's always a little bit too willing to share but always makes your day go fast; and lunch.

Yeah, lunch. Sure, you like your job, you like the people you work with, and you like the structure and consistency that Monday-Friday, nine-five gives you. But most of all, you like your Monday lunches, made from Sunday's breakfast leftovers, by your mom; a leftover bacon, egg, and sausage sandwich, a bottle of fresh orange juice, and a decent slice of apple pie.

You can't lie; a good, homemade lunch is enough to make your day. Hell, a good piece of homemade pie is enough to make your day. And if Mommy making your Monday lunches is what makes your Mondays not suck, then so be it. You're not ashamed.

But this Monday sucks. You spend the whole day dreading art class with Cas so much that Bela makes stupid jokes about you being on your period, Andy decides you clearly didn't get laid over the weekend, and your lunch - which is usually so perfect - doesn't do a damn thing to cheer you up.

You eat it all, though, swallowing each tasteless bite, vowing to never tell your mother just how much you _didn't_ enjoy her pie.

By the time you get to class, you're drained, and you don't want to be there, but you're not that guy. You're not the guy who gets screwed over at a party and then avoids the guy who screwed you over at whatever cost necessary - including ditching the art class your little brother paid for. No, you're the guy who goes to said art class and pretends like it didn't happen, like it didn't mean shit.

And it didn't. Obviously.

You arrive early on purpose, not wanting to deal with that awkward moment when you arrive and automatically make eye-contact with Cas. This way, you can get to your usual seat without any fuss, and when Cas arrives, simply pretend he doesn't exist. You have the upper hand, and after the secret he kept from you, that's kind of something you need right now.

But he turns up pretty early himself, at least for his standards, and when you glance up at him - accidentally, of course - you hate the determined look on his face, hate that you know he'll do his best to get you to listen to his excuses, hate that a part of you almost wants to. You resolve, then and there, to not involve yourself in any conversation that revolves around Saturday night.

He sits next to you, stares at you. "Hello, Dean."

"Cas."

There's silence for one terribly long moment, and you wonder if that's it; now that you know Cas has a boyfriend, he's not going to bother with you anymore. No more flirting, no more pretending, no more anything. You made your thoughts on the situation very clear Saturday night, and now that Cas knows he's not going to score with you, he doesn't need you.

"I wasn't sure you'd show up tonight," he says, fidgeting slightly. "Not after what happened at the party."

And despite your very recent decision to not speak about Saturday night, you just can't help yourself. You scoff. "Relax, Cas. You have a boyfriend - doesn't mean I'm heartbroken, or anything."

"No, I wasn't insinuating -"

"It was a dick move, what you did - all the flirting and touching - and, yeah, I was pissed off about it, but whatever. If you're cool with doing that to your boyfriend, then you go ahead. Just leave me out of it."

You're pretty impressed with yourself. Pissed off as you might be - and not because Cas treated his boyfriend like shit - you're keeping it together, which is more than you've been doing all day. You can do this. You can make sure that Cas knows it's no big deal, and that the only thing he did on Saturday night - and every night you've spent with him recently - was betray his biscuit-loving boyfriend.

Because that's totally how it is.

"I'm sorry that you feel I was using you," he finally says, and anger surges through you.

"Whatever, man."

He sighs. "You're clearly upset with me, and I understand that. All I want is the chance to explain myself."

"You don't have to explain anything."

"But -"

You turn toward him, finally meeting his gaze. "Forget it. Seriously."

"Dean, I don't want to forget about it. Believe it or not, I actually like you. A lot."

You want to ask him what his boyfriend would think about that, but you're already sick of talking about said boyfriend. Instead, you let your anger take over.

"One, I don't believe you. Two, I don't give a shit. And three, fucking forget about it."

You've lost whatever cool you might have had, but you can't bring yourself to care. When Pamela arrives, you turn away from Cas and don't speak to him again.

**Fact: It's all about to fall apart.**

You mom raises an eyebrow when you dig in to the pie she brought for lunch. "Really, Dean, would it kill you to eat your sandwich first?"

You give her a blueberry-filled smile, and mutter around the food in your mouth, "I love you, you know? And I love you even more for bringing me a homemade lunch."

She smiles, and you think it might look a little sad. "I love you, too, darling. But I'm sure I raised you to eat your vegetables first."

"I'm pretty sure your words went something along the lines of ' _while you live under my roof, you eat by my rules'._ I no longer live under your roof, therefore I eat my pie first."

"Always?" And there's a genuinely concerned look on her face that you can't keep the joke up.

"Na. Only when it's made by you."

She smiles again and pats your thigh. "I'm glad we came here instead of going to the Roadhouse or some diner."

You glance around the empty park. "Yeah, me too. It's good to just chill out."

You take another bite of your pie and your mom says nothing, just continues to smile and look around the park, slowly nibbling at her own sandwich. As you finish up your pie, she stops eating and smiles a little less. You want to ask her what's wrong, but she hands you a bottle of water before you can say anything.

Pie finished, you take a quick drink. Your mom looks at you, far too seriously, and you realise she had been waiting for you to finish her pie before saying whatever it is she's going to say.

"Mom?"

"Sweetheart, something's happened."

Your hearts drops. "Is it Sam? Has something happened at Stanford? I can get time off work, you know Bobby'll let me go get him if I need to -"

"No, Dean. Sam's fine."

Relief floods through you, but it's gone in less than a second. "Dad? Is it his heart? Jo's always giving me a hard time about my cholesterol, but Dad's has gotta be through the roof."

"Dean, your father's fine, too." She places her warm hand back on your thigh and looks at you, and you know. You know but you say nothing, because if you don't say it then it can't be true, and whatever it is, you know you don't want it to be true.

"I should really get back to work."

"Dean."

"Mom."

"I have cancer."

Cancer. The word echoes in your brain and it's all you can hear; no birds, no wind, no domesticity from the nearby houses. Just cancer. Because your mom has cancer and your stomach hurts and you think you might throw up.

"Dean?"

"I don't feel so good." And you hate yourself for saying it, because you don't feel so good and _your mom has cancer_.

"Just breathe, sweetheart," she says, and hands you the water. You take a long drinks, thankful for the warmth of her hand as it rubs up and down your back.

"Sorry," you mutter, and wipe your mouth with the back of your arm.

"Are you okay?"

You stare at her. "Are _you_?"

She tilts her chin up, stares right at you, and says, "I will be."

It's not enough, but it has to be, so you nod and ask, "When did you find out?"

"Last week."

"Does Sammy know?"

She lowers her gaze. "No, I - it's not something I can tell him over the phone."

"Yeah, yeah of course."

She grabs your hand again. "It's going to be fine, Dean. I begin treatment in two weeks, and everything's going to be fine."

"Treatment."

"Chemo."

"Will you lose your hair?" You frown as soon as the words are out, because what the fuck? And, for the first time during the conversation, your mom looks truly upset.

"Yes. Gosh, I know it's silly, I do, but I think I'm dreading that more than anything else."

Your jaw clenches. "You don't need to dread it. You'll still be beautiful."

She laughs softly and wipes her eyes, and you tell her to tell you all about it even though it's the absolute last thing you want to hear. But you need to know, and she tells you; tells you it's Hodgkin's Lymphoma; tells you that, of all the cancers she could have gotten, this is one is the best; tells you that she has a ninety-five percent survival rate.

It all goes past you. It goes in and it soaks in, but you can't concentrate on it, can't think about it. Not without freaking the fuck out, and you can't freak the fuck out yet, not now, not in front of your mom.

So instead you nod along to her words, hold her hand, and when she's finished talking, you hug her tight.

**Fact: Everything sucks.**

Tuesday. You go back to work. You go home. You get drunk. You throw up. You get drunk some more. You think about calling Sam. You don't call Sam. You open your laptop and do a little drunk research. You smash your laptop. You throw up again. You pass out.

Wednesday. You wake up hung-over. You go to work hung-over. You call Bela a slut. You throw up your lunch. You refuse to tell Bobby what the fuck is going on. You go home. You get drunk. You don't go to art class. You prank-call Jo and think it's the funniest thing in the world. You throw up. You pass out.

Thursday. You wake up late and hung-over. You stumble in to work still possibly half-drunk. You get called in to Bobby's office. You tell him your mom has cancer. You sit in silence with him, drinking the whiskey he procured from nowhere. You get sent home early, with instructions to either take the next day off, or turn up and act like a professional. You get drunk, because daytime drinking is the best. You pass out early.

Friday. You turn up to work like a professional.

**Fact: Nobody said it was easy.**

Work is awesome. When you're not half-drunk or hung-over. Work is the kind of distraction that helps you. There's heavy metal playing, Rufus and Andy's non-stop banter, Bobby smacking Andy over the back of the head with a newspaper when he gets too fresh with Bela … it's all background noise that somehow keeps your mind both hazy and focused.

Because it's work, and it's the same everyday, and it's exactly what you need. You need dirty hands and oil stains on your clothes and heavy tools falling to concrete floor. You need the familiarity of break pads and oil changes and timing belts. You need to not think about anything other than replacing the entire engine of the old pickup that came in Thursday afternoon.

You finish it Saturday afternoon, staying later than usual to get it done and picked up by its owner. And it feels good to have accomplished something, to have kept your head about you, to have not fallen apart.

Sure, you fell apart Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday, but it's okay. You're doing okay.

Of course there's a constant ache behind your eyes and you can't stomach nearly as much food as normal and your breathing seems to be a little off, but you're okay.

And so is your mom. At least that's what she tells you, and she sounds sincere, so it must be true.

It has to be true.

So, yeah, after a bit of a breakdown, you're keeping it together. But when the guy who owns the Ford pickup leaves, and Andy asks if you want to go get smashed with him, you don't say no.

**Fact: Dean Winchester does not have a type.**

The girl sitting in the booth next to you - hell, she's practically in your lap - gives a breathy little laugh, and yeah, you think about it for seven intoxicated seconds too many, but no. There's something about her, and it sure as hell isn't the killer rack or bright red hair, that reminds you of Jo. And, no matter how much you've had to drink, that would be gross.

Thinking about Jo makes you wonder why you've ignored three of her calls tonight alone. It's not because you're drunk, and it's not because you don't want to talk to her … you just don't want to lie to her about why you've been MIA this week. She knows you too well, and even over the phone she'll pick up that something's going on.

Your parents are visiting Sam next weekend; maybe once that's happened, once Sammy knows, you can answer Jo's phone calls without having to lie to her the whole time. You know that, once Sam knows, Ellen and Jo will be told, Bobby will be told again, and eventually the whole damn town will find out.

"Dude, this is awesome!" Andy yells over the music and past the other girls sitting in the booth with you. "Why have we never done this before? We should make a habit of partying together."

You nod slowly, and you don't know why you've never done this with Andy before - though his Monday-morning stories probably have something to do with it - but you can't currently come up with a good reason to not do it again. He's a fun drunk, and despite how often he does it, it only takes him a couple of beers and a few shots before he's three sheets to the wind.

Which simply means, according to the both of you, you need to drink more to keep up with his level of drunkenness. You snort before doing another shot, and decide once again that it's not even a little bit of a bad thing.

In fact, it's fucking awesome.

But you kind of miss Jo. Jo holds her liquor a hell of a lot better than Andy - a hell of a lot better than you, at the moment - and maybe you should call her … or at least answer the next time she calls. Or, at the very least, send her a text and stop being a total dick by completely ignoring her.

But then the girl opposite you runs her bare foot up your calf, and you decide against doing anything that concerns Jo, because that one foot suddenly seems so much more important. So you take another shot, and wink at the girl, knowing all the while it's probably more dopey than charming.

The girl grins, though, and she's cute. Real cute. Coy smile, shoulder-length black hair, decent boobs. In the dark of the bar you can't quite tell what colour eyes she has, but you'll put money on blue. She looks up at you from beneath her thick lashes as she picks up her pink drink, and you stare back, mouth dry as she wraps her lips around the straw and sucks. Your cock gives an interested twitch, the kind you haven't felt since sitting in that hallway next to Cas, and you silently beg her to give you some kind of invitation.

Any goddamn kind of invitation.

"Hey," the redhead says loudly. Her hand is on your cheek while she tries to get your attention. "You wanna get out of here?"

The girl across from you cocks an eyebrow, and there's a devious smile on her lips as she stands and slips out of the booth.

"Just have to use the bathroom," she says, leaning forward to tell the girl on your lap but staring at you, and shit, that's some view she's giving you.

And definitely an invitation. You're so fucking sure of it that you throw the redhead off your lap and climb awkwardly out of the booth, the booze in your system hitting you even harder when you stand.

"Yeah," you say. "Yeah, me too."

Not meeting your gaze, she smirks and leads the way to the bathroom, and you both ignore the indignant huff from the girl you've left behind. You're sure she's a sweet girl, really, but sweet isn't exactly what you're after tonight. When you think about what you _are_ after, filthy and hot and depraved spring to mind. Something wicked enough to make you forget all the bullshit, make you forget about cancer, work, Cas. Everything.

You just want to lose yourself in someone, and this chick in front of you seems pretty damn willing.

Her hair colour has nothing to do with it. Neither does the smile she keeps shooting you, or the fact that you're damn near positive she has striking blue eyes.

She's cute and fuckable. That's all.

And she's on you the second you enter the hallway, and, okay, you can definitely work with that. You kiss her hard, pull her hips up against your own, and press her back to the wall. She tastes like fruit and alcohol and every other drunk girl you've ever made out with, and it's awesome. It's exactly what you want.

Her tongue thrusts against yours and it's wet and messy and so fucking good that you almost can't breathe. But she pulls away from you, that same smile still lingering on her lips, and pushes you toward the men's' bathroom, hands pressed to your chest as she follows.

It occurs to you, very suddenly as her lips find yours again and your back is shoved up against a wall, that you don't know her name. It's right there, on the tip of your tongue … Terry, Tessa, Tammy … you don't know, but when she drops to her knees and undoes your belt, you no longer care.

And, shit, when she puts that mouth of hers to work, you can't even remember what it was you couldn't remember, and you're so damn wasted that you have to close your eyes and bite your lip to keep yourself in check. You want this to last because you want to forget for as long as possible, but the alcohol swirling in your stomach and making your head fuzzy isn't making that easy.

"Shit," you mutter, and thread your fingers through her hair. But her hair is long; it's not like you've been picturing short, messy hair or anything, but the feel of her long strands between your fingers feels off.

And so does the soft, _feminine_ , moan she gives from around you. Your eyes fly open at that, and you stare down at her, gaze catching with a green that almost matches your own. Green eyes. Green fucking eyes, and they ruin the whole illusion you didn't realise was going on until now.

A strangled cry escapes your throat and you push her away, harder than necessary.

"Hey!" She lands on her ass, and any other time that might be funny.

"Sorry," you mumble, putting yourself away. "Shit, I'm sorry. I gotta go."

You stumble out of the bathroom, tripping over your own feet and still trying to do up your jeans. You've totally fucked up. Probably just hurt some poor girl's feelings, given yourself a serious case of blue balls, and killed any chance you ever had at spending the night _forgetting_ , because Cas. Fucking Cas.

You're drunk, and still thinking about Cas. Some girl had your dick in her mouth, and all you really wanted was Cas. Your mom has cancer, and Cas, Cas, fucking Cas.

You've got it bad, and you don't know how or why, but you do. You've only known the guy a few weeks, maybe a month, and when you're not pretending that your mom doesn't have fucking cancer, you're pretending that you're not totally missing the guy from art class.

Because fuck him and fuck his almost cheating ways and fuck him again for being the only person you want to bury yourself in to forget about the other stuff you're pretending doesn't exist.

The fact that he has a boyfriend doesn't seem to matter so much now, not compared to the cancer, but it still makes you angry. In fact, as you storm through the bar, it makes you fucking furious and you pay no attention to where you're going, who you're walking past, who you're slamming in to.

"Watch it, meathead." The guy is big and ugly, and you laugh because _meathead_. Like you've never been called that before. It was Jo's go-to insult in the sixth grade. But this isn't Jo calling you names, and you're not in the sixth grade anymore, and you really want to hit something.

This guy in front of you is as good a something as anything else.

You punch him in the face, and you punch him hard. But not hard enough. He's a big guy after all, and you barely move him. But you do make him angry, which, recklessly, makes you really, _really_ happy. You grin at him, resisting the urge to call him a fat prick and tempt him even more.

He hits you, a solid punch to the mouth, and it's good and it hurts and maybe this is exactly what you need. A little fight, a little physical pain to get rid of the fucking mess going on inside of you, sounds really fucking good, so you laugh once more, spit out a mouthful of blood, and go to punch him again.

You don't get far, because he's a lot bigger than you and seems to have a lot more friends than you, and you end up the punching bag. And it hurts and it's good and you hope to God it's enough to knock you out. But the bouncer who grabs you by the scruff of your shirt seems to have it in for you, because instead of letting these guys kick the shit out of you, he drags you away.

"Fuck off, man." You try to shrug him off, but he doesn't let go of you until he's got you outside.

"Get the hell out of here," he says, and shoves you away from him.

Your steps falter when he lets you go, and you blame the awkward grip he had on you, the multiple punches to the mouth and gut and head, the taste of blood in your mouth. Anything but the amount of alcohol in your system.

"Yeah, yeah, fuck you, too, buddy," you say, and all the fight has gone from you, so you start off down the street before you end up in another brawl. Another one you're bound to lose.

You continue to walk and trip your way down the street, and you think about the girl. The girl with black hair, that smile, and … green eyes. You don't want green eyes, damn it. You want blue eyes and beautiful hands and a sleep-warmed voice, and before you can think straight enough to talk yourself out of it, your phone is in your hand, contacts list up.

It rings and it rings, and you wonder what time it is, if Cas is in bed, if he's asleep, if he sleeps naked -

"Dean?" Sleep-warmed indeed.

"Cas." You lower your voice to sound like him and can't help but laugh because it's fucking hilarious.

"Dean? Is everything okay?"

You calm yourself down enough to answer. "Yeah, man, everything's fucking great. Oh, except the part where I'm gonna be black and blue come morning." You laugh again. "Come. Get it? _Come_."

"Yes, I get it. What happened? Why are you going to be black and blue?"

"Got in a fight."

"Are you okay?"

You chuckle again, this time dry and humourless. "Fucking peachy, Cas."

"You're drunk."

"Yep."

"Where are you?"

You can hear material rustling in the background, and just know that Cas is getting out of bed with intent to come and get you. If you tell him where you are, that is.

So you tell him where you are and go in to a great deal of detail about the lingerie the mannequin in the shop window next to you is wearing.

"Stay right there," Cas says. "I'll be fifteen minutes."

You hang up and look at the mannequin. "Fancy a threesome, sweetheart?"

**Fact: Cas Novak, heartbreaker.**

Cas owns a Prius. A fucking Prius. You first found this out the night he picked you up for Chuck's girlfriend's party, but at that time you wanted to get into his pants so said nothing about it. Now, though. Now you can give him all the shit you want because, currently, nothing would make you happier than pissing him off.

Except whiskey. Whiskey would be awesome.

"Nice car," you say once you've thrown yourself into the passenger seat, and you chuck in a snort for fun.

"Nice split lip," he retaliates with, and screw him.

"Whatever. You gonna take me home, or not? Because if you're gonna give me a lecture, lemme know now so I can get out and walk."

"No lecture, but please do up your seat belt."

You do as he says then turn to look at him expectantly. "Happy?"

He looks at you, eyes focused and sober. "Not especially."

And those two words are so full of insinuation that it halts whatever shit you were ready to give him about his car. Even in the state you're in you know what Cas is hinting at, can see it in his eyes when he stares at you. But you ignore it. Because you're awesome like that.

You stare out the passenger window. "You gonna drive, or what?"

The ride to your place is silent, and you consider dozing, but your body's humming, fizzing, burning at being so close to Cas. So you sit tight and do, say, feel nothing, because if you do or say or feel something, _anything_ , it won't be good.

Because you're angry and you're sad and you're horny, and angry plus sad plus horny equals sheer stupidity. Multiply that by the eight or nine shots you've had tonight, and the whole equation is a fucking mess that no one can solve.

So you keep your trap shut, and you twiddle your thumbs, and you try your goddamn best to think about nothing.

And then you're at your apartment, far quicker than you thought you would be, and that's just awesome because you need to be out of this car and away from Cas. You turn to him, ready to give him the cursory _thanks for the ride, asshole_ , but he's already unbuckling his seat belt to climb out of the car, and you know it's a stupid idea, know that you can't necessarily be held responsible for what you might do if he comes upstairs with you, but you don't say a damn word.

You go inside, let Cas follow you up the two flights of stairs it takes you longer than usual to get up because you refuse to trip in front of him, and head to your front door. Whatever. No big deal. You've had hot guys in your apartment before.

Just not hot guys who made you feel the completely fucked up way Cas makes you feel.

You shuck off your jacket as soon as you're inside, and head for the bottle of whiskey you've got in the kitchen, and Jesus Christ it's good. The burn down your throat and into your chest is a relief after the night you've had.

"Wouldn't you rather have some water? Or maybe even some coffee?" Cas asks.

You know he's trying to be helpful, but fuck him. "Wouldn't you rather be at home with your boyfriend?"

"No."

And that's not fair. Not fucking fair at all, because he's so earnest, so candid, and he has no right to look at you like that - as though you're the reason he's not happy at home with his boyfriend. So you go for the throat, wanting to make Cas feel the way you felt when he said the word boyfriend.

"Some chick sucked my cock tonight."

He pales. "That must have been pleasant for you."

"Wasn't bad," you admit, and take another large mouthful of whiskey before continuing. "Pretty mouth she had on her."

"Sounds wonderful."

"Yours is prettier, though." You smirk and step toward him, and he doesn't move an inch.

"I'm sure that's supposed to be a compliment somehow …"

"It is. I think about your mouth a lot, you know?" So much for making him hurt.

"Dean, you're drunk."

"Very drunk."

"Perhaps I should go."

Perhaps he should, because what started out as a ride home turned into walking you upstairs turned into wanting him to hurt turned into wanting him. Period. And that's dangerous territory considering the things he made you want to do the last time you were drinking together.

Speaking of …

"Drink?" You hold the bottle out toward him, and he surprises you by taking it and having a healthy swallow.

"You know this stuff isn't good for your liver, right?" he asks, handing the bottle back to you.

"Says the guy who's breakin' my heart."

His head tilts to the side and his brow furrows as he says, "That's not what you said on Monday."

You shrug, not liking how serious, truthful, honest your words sounded … felt. "Whatever."

"Maybe we should talk, Dean. Properly this time."

"No thanks."

"It might be a good idea," he says. "Just to get everything out in the open. I think it _is_ a good idea; I think we need to."

You slam the bottle on to the counter. "Look, Cas. _You_ might need to talk, but I don't have shit to say to you, okay? So why don't you just piss off home and leave me the hell alone?"

Cas stands a little straighter, chin raised in defiance. "You might not have anything to say to me, but you clearly have feelings for me."

Mother. Fucker.

"You think I have feelings for you?" You move towards him, and you must look as furious as you feel because this time he backs up until he's against the wall. You crowd in on him, hating his scent, hating his body heat, hating his blue eyes. "You think I have feelings for you, Cas? What the fuck gives you that idea?"

His cheeks flush as you lean closer still, place your hands on either side of his head, and you're almost positive you don't imagine the hitch in his breath.

"You're the one who said I was breaking your heart."

And the very heart he's talking about aches at his words. "So I did. But you're the one who left his boyfriend at home to come pick up some drunk guy who we both know you want to fuck." You smirk and press near, your bodies so close you can feel his chest move in and out as he breathes. "Is that why you're here, Cas? You wanna fuck me?

He looks torn and his gaze flicks between your eyes and your mouth. "I think I should go."

"Yeah, probably. But I don't see you doin' it. In fact, you invited yourself upstairs, which must mean something." You move forward until you can feel him against you - his breath, his chest, his hard cock matching your own - and, yeah, he wants to fuck you.

He glares at you. "Dean, you're drunk. I followed you up to make sure you got home okay. That's it."

"I don't believe you. I think you picked me up so you could take advantage of my intoxication." You slowly rock your hips against his, and he sucks in a breath, shivers slightly.

"If that's what you think then you don't know me at all."

"Of course I don't know you," you say, far too loudly. "I spent weeks flirting with you only to find out you have a boyfriend!"

"And now you're angry; I understand that. But if you want this - if you want me - then fine, but it's not going to happen tonight." He tilts his head, stares at you with those intense eyes. "Call me when you're sober and maybe we can work something out. I'm not going to do this with you when you're drunk and angry."

You grin. "I'm very adventurous when I'm drunk and angry."

"Fine," he snaps. "I'm not going to do this with you the same night some girl had your dick in her mouth."

And you've had it. Every reason you might have once had for calling Cas is gone, never to be remembered. You step back before you do something stupid and hit the guy.

"Then what the fuck are you doin' here? You're right, Cas; I'm drunk and I'm angry. My mom might die, I can't even tell my best friend about it, and I miss my little brother like a fucking girl. And _you_! Jesus Christ, you aren't gonna fuck me? Then get the fuck outta here."

You turn away, not wanting to see the look on his face, and stumble to your room. Your bed is good to you when you fall face-first onto it, and you pass out within seconds.

**Fact: Mother knows best.**

Breakfast is strange. It's still hash browns and sausages and bagels, bacon and eggs and toast, coffee and orange juice and iced tea, but it's not the same. Now, now that you know your mom's sick, everything just feels off.

"You sure you're okay, son?"

You look at your dad, for the first time taking in how pale and tired he looks. In fact, you're pretty sure he looks worse than you, and you're the one nursing the epic hangover. The hangover caused by the cheap beer and shots - of Vodka? What the hell had you been thinking last night? - at the bar, and the whiskey once you got home.

Home, where you had told Cas about the girl who went down on you, tried to talk him in to fucking you, and yelled at him and then passed out when he refused.

Home, where you had made a huge fucking fool out of yourself by claiming Cas was breaking your heart. It was bullshit. Drunken bullshit. Really.

And so was the glass of water and bottle of aspirin he had left on your nightstand.

"I'm fine, Dad."

"You get into a fight last night?"

"Uh, yeah. Just a little misunderstanding with some guy at a club. No big deal."

Dad leans forward across the table, and he's got that look about him - the stern, unrelenting look that means he's not going to put up with your shit.

"It's a big deal to your mama, Dean-o. You know how she worries about you; you can't come around here lookin' all banged up like that."

Guilt floods through you. You do your goddamn best not to fidget in your seat, and even though you desperately want to hold his gaze, you can't help but glance behind him to your mom. She's finishing up the scrambled eggs, dancing lightly as she sings quietly to herself. You chest constricts at the sight.

"Right."

"She's got enough going on without concerning herself with you, too."

"Yeah. Yeah, okay, Dad. No problem."

He nods and leans back in his seat. "You know we're going down to see Sam tomorrow?"

"I thought you were going over the weekend?"

"Yeah, the Doc called on Friday, said he can get your mama in early for her first round of chemo, so we had to bring telling Sam forward."

"Huh. That's good, I guess, right?"

"It's good. The sooner this begins the sooner she'll be better." And there's such certainty in his voice that all your worries disappear for the moment. He seems to firmly believe, with all his heart, that your mom's going to be fine, and if you dad can believe it then so can you.

"What's got you smiling?" Mom asks, and begins to pile your plate with eggs.

"Your cooking," you reply straight away, and it's barely a lie.

She smiles and takes her seat, and as you and your dad fill your plates, you can't help but notice how little your mom puts on hers. You wonder if she's just not hungry or if it's a cancer thing. You don't know a lot about what's going on with her, despite the research you attempted Tuesday night. You know about ignition coils and carburettors and alternators, not lymph nodes and radiation therapy and staging.

_Staging_. That shit freaks you out. It wasn't long after reading about stage four Hodgkin's Lymphoma that you decided to smash your laptop.

"Oh, Dean," Mom says, picking at a biscuit, and you're thankful for the interruption to your thoughts, "I met your friend Cas yesterday."

Okay. Maybe not that thankful. "You what?"

"I met Cas, at the library."

"But …" You sputter a little, not sure how to respond, and a little bit alarmed at what your mom might know that you really don't want her to. "Why?"

She gives an odd smile, and you can't decipher the meaning behind it. "I swapped routes with Missouri and ended up selling Cas an apple and pear biscuit. Said you recommended them."

There's a sick lurch in your stomach at that, but you ignore it. "Uh, yeah. Yeah, I did."

"He seems like a lovely young man." And there's a tone to her voice that you've grown accustomed to over the years.

"Mom."

"I'm just sayin'! He was very polite and full of compliments for my baking."

"That doesn't necessarily make him a good guy."

She frowns. "Are you saying he's not a good guy?"

"No." You pause, because you don't really know what you're saying, and when you continue, everyone in the room knows it's a lie. "I'm just saying that I barely know him."

"Well for someone you barely know, he seems to be rather fond of you."

"Shit." There's heat on your cheeks and you look at your dad, desperate for a little interference, but he gives you nothing and it's not at all surprising. He takes Mom's side over anyone's and about anything.

"No need for cussin'," she says, and she's got that smile on her face again. "All I'm saying is that he seems very nice. And very good looking."

Dad finally decides to speak up then, with an indignant grumble. "Hey."

Mom ignores him and frowns at you. "He also asked if you were okay. Said you haven't turned up to art class since Monday."

Cas was worried about you, huh? You're willing to be he isn't anymore, not after the way you treated him last night.

"Yeah," you admit. "I guess I just haven't been up to it."

"Sweetheart." She reaches over and places her hand atop of yours. "I know this is tough on you, just like it's tough on us, but that's why you have to go to your art class. It makes you happy, and when everything seems to be turning to shit, it's best to throw yourself into the things that make you happy. Right, John?"

Dad nods and you grin at your mom's cursing; it'll never get old.

"So promise me you'll go back to class tomorrow night, Dean."

You look at your dad and he's giving you that same look again, but this time you don't need it. He's not the only one who's willing to do anything for Mary Winchester.

You squeeze her hand. "Yeah, I promise."

**Fact: Guilt is a powerful motivator.**

So you feel bad. Really bad. Maybe even guilty. Okay, quite a bit guilty. You were possibly in the wrong. Probably in the wrong. Almost definitely in the wrong. Jesus, you feel totally guilty for definitely being in the wrong and acting like a real shitty person, and you're pretty sure everyone - everyone being Sam and Jo - would be thrilled to hear you admitting your fault.

Yes, Cas lied about having a boyfriend, but he didn't deserve the crap you threw at him Saturday night. Adventurous you might be while drunk and angry, but cruel and heartless and spiteful also fit the bill. And that wasn't fair. Cas came when you called, gave you a ride to your apartment, made sure you got inside okay.

Then there's the part where he stuck around to hear you talk about some girl who went down on you. That wasn't cool, telling him that. Just the thought of someone doing that to Cas makes you feel a little sick, and there you were, ready to go into detail about the whole thing, just to hurt him a little. Really not awesome.

So when he doesn't turn up to class Monday night, you can't help but wonder if it's because of you, because of the shit you said to him and the way you treated him. And you feel awful.

But the guilt is a good distraction. It keeps you from thinking about Mom and Dad and Sam, and the conversation the three of them are probably having.

You push that away and listen to Pamela talk about eyes being the window to the soul, pull out your sketch book, and start doodling. She continues talking, explaining the close-up of an animals' face she wants you to draw, but you're too busy thinking about Cas to pay much attention. Because Cas came when you called and you were a complete asshole, and you need to do something to fix that.

You end up drawing a Golden Labrador puppy, having maybe let the cute puppy suck you in to watching _Marley & Me _the night before. Pamela boosts your ego and confidence with her compliments on the playfulness that seems to come from your puppy's eyes, and it gives you the courage you need. The second class ends and everyone begins packing up their belongings, you take out your phone, ignore the two more missed calls from Jo, and pull up Cas' number.

You don't think about it, or way the pros and cons. You tap the call icon and put your phone to your ear. It rings eleven times, and you're just about to hang up, not wanting to get to his voicemail if you can avoid it, when the line picks up and Cas answers.

"Hello?" There's understandable hesitance in his voice, and you wonder how long he stood there for, holding his phone and watching your number come up on screen while he debated whether or not to answer.

"Uh, hey. Hey, Cas."

He sighs. "Hello."

Silence follows, and you know the ball's in your court, but you're not sure what to say. An apology is definitely on the cards, but that's something you'd rather do in person. You're just not sure you'll ever get the chance to do so. Cas not turning up to class tonight seems like a sign, and not the kind you're after.

"Where are you?" you ask, and the accusation in your tone is totally unfair.

"At home."

"Right, of course. It's just … you weren't in class tonight, and I wanted to, uh …"

"Yes?"

You don't know. Apologise? Play nice? Pretend Saturday night never happened? You scoff, you totally want to do all of the above.

"I guess I wanted to talk to you," you finally say.

"You're doing that right now, aren't you?" His answer is short and clipped, and more guilt floods through you until you hear another voice in the background.

"Cassy? Are we going to finish talking about this?" The voice is British and pompous and you already hate the person who owns it.

Cas covers the mouthpiece of the phone, but you can still hear him. "Not right now, Balthazar. You're in the mood for a fight, and I'm not going to give it to you."

His words, ones not even directed at you, make you feel even worse because it seems Cas has to put up with people trying to start fights with him more often that he should have to. You say nothing, though, just wait for Cas to begin talking to you again.

"Are you still there, Dean?"

"I'm here." And, yes, there's a bitter taste in your mouth because Cas has a freaking boyfriend.

"You wanted to talk?"

You pause before answering, wondering if it's worth it. Finally, you sigh. "Yeah, but I'd really prefer to do it in person."

A long silence follows on Cas' end, but after a while you begin to hear a whispered argument going on. You fidget in your seat, glance up and catch Pamela watching you with a smirk on her face, and wonder if this is the most awkward phone conversation of your life.

"Yes," he finally says into the phone. "There's a little diner on Pine Street. Can you be there in ten minutes?"

Your heart skips a little at Cas' agreement. "Yeah, yeah I'll be there."

"I'll see you then." He hangs up and you're left wondering what you just got yourself into.

Sure, you want to see Cas, apologise to him, but it's not going to be easy. Admitting you're wrong isn't something you're good at, and Cas seems to be in a delicate mood already. You don't know what his fight with Balthazar was about, and you truly don't want to, but you hope it doesn't affect the conversation you're about to have with him.

"Have a nice night, kid," Pamela says as you leave the room, and you roll your eyes, pretty sure she's maybe a year or two older than you.

**Fact: Your lack of self-control is pathetic.**

It takes you longer than expected to get to Pine street, and Cas is already waiting for you when you arrive. You suck in a breath when you spot him; he's sitting in a booth, clearly waiting for you, and Jesus Christ he looks good.

For a second - just one split second that you will pretend never happened - you wish Saturday night had turned out different. You wish he had taken advantage of your drunken anger, and fucked you on your living room floor. You ignore those thoughts, though, willing away the heat that takes over your body, and take a seat opposite him.

"Hey, Cas."

"Hello, Dean." He sounds tired and, up close, he looks exhausted.

"Rough weekend?" you ask, and immediately regret it.

"It certainly wasn't the best weekend I've had."

"Uh, yeah, about that. I guess that's why I called, you know? To apologise?

He stares at you until you look away, and only then does he sigh. "Let's get some dinner." He waves the waitress over, orders the chicken club and a strong coffee, then waits for you.

"You got any pie?"

"Got peach or apple, sugar," the waitress says, cocking her hip.

"Cool. I'll have the all-day breakfast with coffee, then a slice of each."

She winks then walks away and you turn back to Cas. "So."

"So?"

"Are you okay, man? I mean, you didn't show up for class tonight, and you look … well, you look beat." But even beat he looks incredibly good; his lips are still plump, he obviously hasn't shaved in a few days, and his eyes look deeper and more meaningful than ever before.

"I'd rather not talk about it," he says, "but I do think we need to talk."

"Yeah, okay."

"About what happened Saturday night."

You nod and look away, pick at a napkin from the holder, do anything you can to keep cool. "Yeah, that's why I called. Dude, I was a mess. I mean, the shit I said to you wasn't cool at all, and, uh … I'm sorry, man. You didn't deserve that crap. Sure, I was angry with you, but it wasn't just that, you know? I was having a rough week, and I got drunk and took it all out on you, and that wasn't fair of me. You didn't deserve any of that."

When you look back up, Cas' head is tilted to the side and he looks surprised by your words. "That's very nice of you to say, Dean. Apology accepted."

"Really?"

"Of course."

You grin. "That was easy. Maybe I should begin to apologise more often."

"You seem sincere in your words, so I have no reason not to accept them."

"Right, and I am, you know, sincere."

The waitress brings your coffees over, and Cas is silent until she leaves. "So you're no longer angry with me for lying to you?"

"No, I'm still angry, but it is what it is, you know?. I mean, I do wish you didn't have a boyfriend, but -" You break off, flushing from your own words and ignoring Cas' small grin. "Whatever, man. I guess we can be friends, right?"

"Of course. And, as your friend, there's something else I wanted to talk to you about."

"Shoot."

"Some things were said on Saturday night that I think we need to address."

You can right away think of three things he's referring to; one - all your talk about the chick at the bar, and the things you said about her just to hurt him; two - your stupid and pathetic comment about him breaking your heart that totally isn't true at all; and three, the fact that you accused him of wanting to take advantage of you.

Christ, you really were a dipshit.

But then you remember something Cas said to you that night, something that might explain why he's here, despite the way you treated him.

_Call me when you're sober and maybe we can work something out._

That can't be why he's here, though. It's definitely not why you called, and you silently hope that it's not the reason he's here.

"Okay," you finally say. "Uh, what things?"

He leans forward and moves his hand so close to yours that a twitch of a finger would have them touching, and this is it, you know it is. He's going to hit on you, hint at what _he_ said Saturday night, and you … shit, you don't know what you'll do.

"Dean, you told me your mother might die."

You pull your hand back, sit up straight in the booth, take yourself as far away from Cas as possible. "What?"

"Before you told me to leave, you said that your mother might die -"

"I know what I said." And you do know, but there's no friggin' way you want to talk about it, because all day, when you weren't feeling like shit for what you said to Cas, you're thinking about Sam, and how he's taking the news.

You want to call them, any of them, just to hear one of their voices, but you won't do it. For all you know, the three of them have gone out for a nice dinner, your parents are meeting Jess, and everyone is so happy to be together that the whole reason for the visit hasn't yet come up in conversation.

Maybe Sam doesn't even know yet, and you envy him at the mere idea …

"I thought you might want to talk about it," Cas says. "I've lost my mother, so I know how it feels to -"

"No."

"Excuse me?"

"No, Cas. Just, no, okay?" And you're having trouble breathing, let alone getting the words out.

"You don't want to talk about it?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

He nods, frowning, but a small smile plays at his lips. "This seems to be a recurring theme of yours."

"What're you talkin' about, man?"

"Not talking about things," he says. "Last week you didn't want to talk about the fact that I lied to you, Saturday night you didn't want to talk about us, and tonight you don't want to talk about your mother. It's not hard to guess that you're not one for emotional conversations."

"I'm not into deep and meaningfuls. Sue me."

He just continues to smile at you, and even though you want to hate him for bringing up your mom, you can't help but feel warm at how much happier he looks now than when you first arrived. It makes you smile back and think that maybe a compromise wouldn't hurt.

"So, _us_?"

"Excuse me?"

"What you said before - that I didn't want to talk about us. When did we become an us?" Because you're good now, you and Cas. You've apologised, he's accepted, you've even joked a little. It feels like before, only less - because he has a boyfriend so you know you're not going to hook up - but enough like before that you're willing to tease him a little.

Cas blushes, but he gets that deep look in his eyes again. "I've been thinking of you and I as an us quite a lot recently. I know it's wrong," he says, catching your raised eyebrow, "but I can't help it. I've known Balthazar since my freshman year of college, but in the short time I've known you, I've come to like you a whole lot more than I like him these days."

You swallow thickly, dancing a little on the inside. "Cards on the table, huh?"

"I'm sick of lying, Dean. I'm sick of lying to you, I'm sick of lying to myself … I'm especially sick of lying to Balthazar. I'm not sure he deserves this from me. He's a good man, and our relationship might have never been perfect, but I shouldn't be thinking what I think about you, let alone considering acting on those thoughts." He sighs. "And, to be completely honest, I'm sick of pretending I don't feel what I feel for you."

Whoa. Feelings. You're not sure what to say, and you're not sure you're ready to confront your own feelings yet, so take a breath and ask about Balthazar.

"Why're you with him, Cas? I mean, if you like some guy you've known for a month more than your own boyfriend then why the hell are you with him?"

His eyes are sincere as he stares at you. "You're not just some guy, Dean." He pauses and frowns at his coffee. "But neither is Balthazar, and I understand what you're saying. The fact is, Balthazar recently lost someone very special to him. He needs me."

"Who'd he lose?" Because you can't help but ask. For Cas to stick around and be seemingly miserable, it must have been someone pretty damn important.

"I … I don't think that's important right now." And he looks guilty, as if he's giving away secrets that aren't his to give. The waitress arrives and delivers your food, and Cas waits until she's gone before he continues. "What you need to know, though, is that I've known Balthazar for a long time. We've been friends for almost ten years now, and a few years ago … well, something just happened one night. And then it happened again and again until we were clearly in a relationship."

His words make you sick, but you go with it. "Just kinda fell into it, huh?"

"Yes, but then Balthazar's friend died a few months back, and … well, nothing's been the same since."

"Right."

He looks at you. "There's a reason he and I no longer share a bed. Our relationship has been falling apart for a while, and it's now at a stalemate, where my feelings for him are nothing more than the platonic ones I've had since meeting him."

"Okay." You can't pretend that doesn't make you happy, even if you do feel kind of bad for the guy, losing a close friend.

"He's hurting. A lot. He's suffering and it's causing friction between us. Even our friendship is wearing thin, but … he's still my friend from college. Always will be, so I can't just leave him," Cas continues. "He's always been such a good friend towards me, and he's already lost so much; to leave him now would just be cruel."

"Yeah."

"But - but I think about you a lot, Dean." His gaze flicks towards you then quickly away again. "And it confuses me. I know I don't feel what I used to for Balthazar, but I have no idea what I feel for you, or if you feel anything for me, and the last thing I want is to hurt Balthazar, but … I can't stop thinking about you."

You run a hand through your hair and let out a deep breath. "Shit, Cas."

"Cards on the table, Dean," he says, staring right at you. "If I could do it - if I could leave him and be with you, without hurting him more than I already am by being here with you, I'd do it in a heartbeat, but I can't." His voice is so heartfelt, so desperate for you to believe him, and you do believe him, but maybe that's the problem.

"Damn, Cas." You run a hand through your hair. "You can't just say shit like that, man."

"Like what?"

"Like what you just said! That's - that's totally unexpected and really confusing and … just not fucking _fair_."

"I know it's not fair, I do." And his voice is broken, guilt-ridden. "I'm trying to do the right thing by staying with him, by being what he needs, but it's difficult. I hate myself for even _thinking_ about cheating on him, but … when it comes to you, I can't stop."

You scoff, shake your head. "I meant not fair to me, asshat."

"Oh. Well, yes, that's true." His head tilts to the side. "That doesn't make it any less true, though."

"I -" You splutter for words, completely at a loss. "Cas. You do realise what you're saying, right?"

"Dean, I -"

"You know you can't say things like that, man!" You try not to raise your voice, you really do, but Cas is messing with your head and it's making things hurt. Things that shouldn't be hurting because of him. Things like your chest and stomach and fucking _heart_. "You're screwing with me, man, and it's not fucking fair. You have a boyfriend!"

"Yes, but I don't love him anymore."

"That's not my fault," you say, and lower your voice. "And it isn't the point. You led me on for weeks, you think of us as an _us_ , and now you're tellin' me you'd leave your boyfriend for me but you just _can't_?"

"I thought that would make you happy. I thought that perhaps you …"

"What? Felt the same? You think I want to be with you? Maybe I was just in this to get laid; ever think of that, Cas?"

He frowns. "I highly doubt it, after what you said about me breaking your heart."

A cynical laugh escapes you in a huff. "Know what I remember being said on Saturday night, Cas? You telling me to call you when I'm sober, so maybe we could work something out."

"That's why you think I agreed to meet you? To plan an affair with you?" And there's nothing but shame in his eyes.

"I dunno, man." You push your barely-touched plate away and throw down some money. "But everything else you've done has been unfair as fuck, to me and your boyfriend, so why the hell not?"

You get up to leave without waiting for a reply, not giving a shit about your dinner, or the pie that's still to come. You'll stop at the store on the way home, grab yourself a pie and some beers, and that'll make the crappy night not so crappy.

It's once the door to the diner goes to close behind you that you realise Cas is following you. He catches the door and you swing around to find yourself face to face with him.

"I'm going home. I'll see you in class." And you turn to leave because that should be that, but of course it's not because it's Cas and you're not sure it'll ever be done.

"No. Not until we finally talk about this."

"There's nothing to talk about!" You go to leave, but he grabs your arm and jerks you back around to face him.

"The hell there isn't. We clearly have some issues, Dean; issues that need to be sorted out."

"Nothing needs to be sorted out, okay? Whatever issues you think we've got are all your own. I was happy to just be friends until you started talking shit about - about _us_."

Cas glares at you. "Bullshit."

"Excuse me?"

"You might have said we can still be friends, but I don't for a second believe you're happy with just being friends, Dean. Not even a little bit."

"Fuck you, man." You step forward, finger in his face. "You don't know shit."

"Calm down," he says, glancing around. "People are beginning to stare."

He's right. There's a couple to your right who are watching with avid attention, and an old lady behind you glaring at you. Whatever.

"So? You wanna fuck me but not cause a scene, huh?"

And yeah, you're angry. Really fucking angry and you're not even entirely sure why. All you know is that Cas is making you feel things and nothing about that is fair when he's going to go home to his boyfriend tonight while you go home to an empty apartment.

He tugs you to the side of the diner, and it's only then that you realise his hand is still on your arm, has been this whole time. You shrug away from him, but follow him anyway, past the dumpster and into the alleyway, and when he stands with his back to the diner wall, you look at everything but him - the trash on the ground next to the dumpster, the graffiti on the wall behind you, the employees only door near the end of the alleyway.

"Dean."

You look at Cas. "I'm not going to sit around and listen to you tell me how you feel things for me, and how you like me more than your boyfriend, when you're going home to that same boyfriend in just a few minutes time."

"You could change that," he says quietly, staring at the ground.

"What?"

He looks at you, gaze unsure. "You could invite me back to your place instead."

"Not happening, Cas."

"Why not?"

Because, as much as you hate to admit it, his boyfriend probably doesn't deserve that. Because, no matter how much you want it, you know it's not the right thing to do. Because, no matter how much you want to pretend it's not true, you know there's a damn good chance that you'll be the one who ends up getting hurt in this scenario.

You can't go there with Cas, who you already really like, who hurt you enough just by having a boyfriend he didn't tell you about, who's telling you things he can't make happen. You can't take that risk, not when you're already in so deep.

"Tell me you don't have feelings for me," he continues, when you say nothing, and his voice is so soft, so serious, so full of self-doubt.

"I don't have feelings for you."

He stares right into your goddamn soul. "I think you're a liar."

Yes you are. You take a step towards him.

"Shut up."

He squints up at and licks his lips. "Dean."

"Yeah?" And your voice is a strangled groan, because his eyes are dark and his lips are wet and his breath is hot against your skin because you might be standing closer than necessary.

"Dean."

You close your eyes and he says your name again, and then once more, and his voice is a throaty chant, nothing but raw, guttural syllables that shoot straight to your dick. You fight back a moan, but when his long fingers brush against your jaw, you can't help the whimper that falls out, and you can't even bring yourself to be ashamed of it. You want it too much.

"Cas," you say again, and you open your eyes and look at him, and you're so much closer than you originally thought and fuck it, fuck it all to hell. Fuck being friends, and fuck Balthazar, and fuck letting Cas go home and forget about you.

Your eyes close once more when his thumb glides along your lower lip, and you want to taste it, taste him. You can feel his rasping voice against you when he says your name again, and he must be so close - so close that you could just lean forward, one inch, maybe two, to brush your lips against his …

With a strangled cry, you grab him by the front of his jacket and force him against the wall behind him, force him away from you … but you follow. You follow and you sneer at him, growl at him and want him, want to push and shove until he's out of your mind and you don't think about him anymore, never think about him again.

You kiss him, harsh and forceful, throwing every bit of anger and anguish you've felt this last week into it, forcing all the lust and longing you feel for him into his mouth, against his tongue, into his body. And he kisses you back. He kisses you back and it's coffee and hunger and a fierce need that feels just as crushing as your own.

His hands are on your jaw, grasping tight, and he tongues at the roof of your mouth, nips at your lips, breathes warm and wet against you, and his mouth - the mouth you've given a hell of a lot of thought to - is even better than you imagined, better than you'd dreamed. And when he moves his hands to the back of your head, tilts you just so, and mouths at the skin of your neck, you shake and tremble and ache.

So you pull away, shove his hands away from your body and hold them at his sides, and drop to your knees in front of him because you have to, you need to, you want to, and Cas - bless his heart - murmurs your name again, and any more of that and you might just die because your name on his lips is heaven. Fucking heaven.

His fingers card through your hair as you pull at his belt and drag his jeans and underwear down his legs. And then he's in your mouth, and he's hard and hot and heavy against your tongue, skin silky-smooth as you move your mouth over it, suckle at the head until he's writhing and moaning and crying out above you.

You don't stop, even as conflict rises in you for doing it, as your own cock presses against the zipper of your jeans. You swallow him down, swiftly and skilfully, suck him deep and dig your fingers into the flesh of his ass, kneading and touching and just not stopping until he comes down your throat with a muffled shout.

Only then do you slow down, eventually stop and get to your feet. You wipe at your chin while Cas puts himself away and does up his jeans, and you wonder just how long you're going to spend in Hell for this. But then Cas reaches for you, palms your hardness through the denim of your jeans, and you go cold. You pull away.

"Dean -"

"No."

His eyes narrow. "No?"

You swallow thickly, try to ignore the taste of Cas lingering in your spit, and wonder what the fuck you just did. "Shit, that - that shouldn't have happened."

"But it did."

"Not again." You shake your head, desperately trying to clear the haze and lust, knowing that what you just did was wrong, that it can never happen again. You nod, more to yourself than him, and take a couple of steps back. "This is it, Cas. What just happened - that's it. You and me? We're friends, just like we agreed inside. Okay? Just friends."

He looks like he wants to say something, perhaps argue with you, which would be totally understandable and logical, because who the fuck makes a statement like that after giving one of the best damn blowjobs of their life? Only idiots like you.

But he merely nods. "Okay, Dean. If that's what you want."

"Yeah. Yeah, okay. I'll see you on Wednesday." You nod again, hesitate for a second, then leave before you can talk yourself out of it.

**Fact: Jo knows you too damn well.**

When your phone rings at six o'clock the following morning, your chest tightens and there's a lump in your throat because you're sure it's going to be Mom or Dad or Sam, and you're not sure how that conversation will go. Especially if it's Sam. You don't know what you're going to say to him the next time you talk to him, but you know it's not going to be easy.

Your caller ID flashes Jo's name, and, in your relief at it not being Sam, you answer, momentarily forgetting that you've been avoiding her calls for days.

"Hey, Jo."

"Where are you?"

You frown at your phone before answering. "Home. Where are you."

She scoffs. "At home, obviously, but I was getting ready to call the damn hospital to see if something had happened and you'd been admitted -"

"Jo."

"- and if that had failed, I would've called your parents. I'm serious, Dean Winchester, I would have called your mama and let her know that you've been AWOL for almost a week now, effectively making her worry her sweet little heart out."

"Jo," you try again, "I'm sorry, okay? I've just been …"

"You've just been what, Dean?" And you know by the tone of her voice that there's no possible excuse you could give that will make her forgive you … except the truth.

"You know, busy."

"Liar." Wow. It's the second time in twelve hours that someone has called you a liar, and the second time in twelve hours that the name caller has been right.

"Look, Jo -"

"You're keeping something from me."

"No I'm not."

"Yes you are."

"No I'm not."

"Yes you are."

"No I'm -"

"You know that I can do this for hours, Dean."

She's right, damn her, but you don't know what to say. You can't tell her about your mom yet because it's still family-only knowledge, but even if you could tell her you don't know what you would say: _oh, by the way, Jo, my mom's got cancer, she has to have chemo, and all her hair's gonna fall out, and yeah, she could die_. No, not something you like to admit to yourself, let alone tell Jo about.

"Is it Cas?" she asks quietly. "Has something happened?"

"No." But your cock twitches to attention at the memory of the night before, and you push it right away because, shit, being on your knees in front of Cas was fucking awesome, but no. You're not going there again, and you're not even going to let your mind head in that direction. You don't need that.

"Then what's going on?"

"Nothing."

"Dean!" And you know she's not yelling at you out of a lack of gossip. You know Jo well enough to know that she knows you too damn well, and she knows something is genuinely going on. "Is it really that bad that you can't tell me? Because if it is then I'll shut up about it, but it's caused you to ignore me for days so I'm worried."

"I'm not keeping anything from you," you say.

She huffs. "Right, so you're just ignoring me?"

You can't help but smile at her tone, positive you can turn this around to the banter that usually falls between the two of you. "Maybe. Wouldn't be the first time, would it?"

Silence follows, and you wait patiently for Jo's response. It's not the response you were expecting.

"You know what, Dean? Fuck you. I'm not digging for details here; I'm genuinely trying to help. Something's up, and if you don't want to tell me, then fine, but don't flat-out lie to me."

"Jo -"

"No. I've been calling and calling because I've been worried about you, but I also called because I had a date with Benny last night and I really could have used your support."

"Shit, Jo, I'm sorry -"

"Whatever. Call me when you're ready to talk instead of bullshitting me and bottling everything up." She hangs up before you can say anything else, and you feel like shit.

She's your best friend; she deserves to know, and, even more than that, she deserves for you to stop lying to her. Even if you don't tell her what's going on, the least you could do is admit that something's up.

Because, really, Bobby knows. And Sam probably knows by now. Even if you did tell Jo, you know she wouldn't tell a soul, not even her own mother, if you asked her not to. And it's not as if your mom asked you to keep it to yourself; all she wanted was to make sure she and Dad were the ones to tell Sam.

There's no good reason for not telling Jo. Fact is, you just don't want to talk about it yet.

**Fact: All you need is love.**

You get a text from Dad around lunch time, reminding you that they'll be home this afternoon and you're expected for dinner at six, and thank fucking God. That means Sam knows, and the relief you feel is enormous. The relief at having your sick mom back in the same state as you is also pretty high, despite the fact that you can't really do a thing for her.

Bobby seems to realise you're distracted, and he sends you home early, which is just another relief to your stressful life, and you hate to be so damn dramatic, but Jesus. Between your mom and Cas, you're surprised you're not going grey.

The door's locked when you get to your parents, so you knock and wait, figuring it'll be quicker than fiddling through the twenty-odd keys you own to find the right one. And you're right; the door opens not a moment later, and standing in front of you is Sam.

And he's grinning at you - his big, stupid grin on his big, stupid face, and it takes everything you have to push away the tears that threaten.

"What the hell?"

"Hey, Dean."

"What're you doing here?"

He pouts. "Nice to see you, too."

"Jesus Christ." You pull him in for a hug, and when his bear-arms wrap tightly around you, you finally feel like maybe you can relax a little, because your mom has cancer, and Cas makes you feel things, and you're best friend is angry with you, but Sam's here, and that makes everything better.

"Missed me, huh?" Sam says, but when he pulls back his eyes are a little misty, too.

"Are you even allowed to be here? I mean, Stanford can't kick you out for leaving, can they?"

He laughs. "No, they can't. It's all good, Dean. I spoke to my advisor and the dean, so they know what's going."

"Good, good. I mean, good that they're understanding, and … you know, good that you're here."

"So you did miss me." He grins. You roll your eyes, and you're about to call him a bitch when he decides to get all serious. "I missed you a lot, Dean. Once I go back, you have to come visit more, okay? And meet Jess."

You nod, because Sam sounds so sincere that, even though you've never had any inkling to go to California, you will absolutely make a point of visiting.

"How is Jess?"

Another big, stupid grin. "Good, Dean, really good. How's Cas?"

"What?"

Sam's eyes widen and he feigns ignorance. "Did I say _how_? I mean _who_. Who's Cas?"

"I have no idea who you're talking about."

"Well, whoever he is, Mom seems to think he's a lovely young man who's totally into you."

"He is not!" And, yes, you get defensive and, yes, it's mostly to hide the fact that you're blushing like a teenage girl.

Sam smirks. "That hickey on your neck says otherwise."

Your hand flies to your neck, because no fucking way, and by the time you notice Sam laughing, you've already given yourself away. There's no hickey on your neck, you know that, but there might as well be with how blatant you are. You cough, change the subject.

"How long are you here for?" you ask, and he shrugs.

"As long as it takes, I guess."

"Really? You know that could be a while, right? You sure you can survive that long without school, nerd?"

He smiles indulgently at your name-calling, but it's a sad smile. "Some things are more important than school, Dean."

You gasp, press a hand to your heart. "Has hell frozen over? Are there pigs in the sky?"

Sam shoves at your shoulder. "You don't have to turn everything into a joke, you know? Especially not me being back … or the reason I'm back."

"Trust me, Sammy, there's nothing joke-worthy about the reason you're back."

He nods, and it seems like he's about to go all feelings and chick-flick on you, and you silently hope for some kind of intervention, but when a car pulls up behind you, you turn and flinch at the sight of Ellen's old pick-up. She and Jo climb out of the truck, and your stomach sinks with what's to come - because you know why they're here, why they're clearly invited to dinner the same night Sam gets home - and you make a decision then and there. You just hope it's the right decision.

"Mom's gonna tell them tonight?"

Sam nods. "Yep."

He races past you to greet the women, and you linger behind. You wait through the usual catch up, not missing Sam's evasive answers when asked what he's doing here, or the way Jo simply won't meet your gaze. Bobby pulls up next, and there's more hugging from Sam, and distracting conversation from Jo and Ellen, and she just won't even glance in your direction.

You won't let her get away with it, though, so you tug at her arm until she finally looks at you.

"What?"

What indeed. Sam, without having to be told, leads Ellen and Bobby inside, and then it's just you and Jo and the awful thing you have to tell her. And you do have to tell her. She's going to find out, no matter what, but it needs to come from you. Ready to talk about it or not, you have to be the one to tell your best friend.

"Well?" She crosses her arms and cocks her hip, and you raise an eyebrow at how _Ellen_ she looks, but know better than to tell her that.

"Uh, you were right. This morning. And I'm sorry for lying to you."

"Wow, Dean, that's great. Really heartfelt." Her arms uncross and her hands land on her hips. "Now if you'll excuse me, your mama invited me to dinner."

You step in front of her. "No."

"Excuse me?"

"Look. You're gonna go inside and hear some really crappy stuff, okay? And I know I've been avoiding telling you about it, but if you're gonna hear it then you should really hear it from me."

Jo's hands drop and she bites her lip. "Okay, now you're scaring me."

"Yeah."

"You're not dying, are you? Because I'm not sure I could handle that."

You wince, because, no, you're not dying, but that does hit a little too close to home. "I'm fine, Jo. It's mom. She, uh … she has cancer."

"Oh." She nods, very slowly as she takes that in. "Oh."

"Yeah. She begins chemo tomorrow, and, uh, that's why you've all been invited for dinner, so she could tell you."

She silent for a long while, minutes that feel like hours, and you wait anxiously for her to take it in, to say something, but it's huge news, and if Jo needs to be uncharacteristically quiet to deal with it, then so be it. Hell, you nearly threw up in the park when you found out; you can't judge Jo on whatever it is she does.

Eventually she nods and looks at you, and you know she's near tears. You look away, feeling pretty much the same, but when her arms go around your waist, you pull her close and drop a kiss onto her forehead. She squeezes tight, and you have to take a whole bunch of long, deep breaths to keep from telling her just how much this is screwing with you.

When she pulls away, though, it's with a determined smile that you force yourself to return, and she grabs your hand to lead you inside. She doesn't let go until you separate to take your seats at the dinner table.

A quick look around the table shows everyone doing their best to stay cheerful, though they have clearly been told about the cancer. Bobby is staring at his plate, not meeting anyone's gaze, while Ellen smiles and laughs at Dad's lame joke, but her eyes are a little too damp. And Jo, she's still silent.

Missouri turns up, too, bringing the scent of fresh blueberry pie with her and the kind of smile that your mom wants and needs - the kind of smile that offers no pity, only love and acceptance.

"Who's ready for meatloaf?" You mom asks, smiling happily at everyone, and because you want to please her, you take your seat next to Sam and hold up your plate.

"Bobby worked me rough today, Mom, I could use an extra helping."

She rolls her eyes at you, and Bobby scoffs.

"Boy, I let you go home early."

"Oh yeah." You grin around a fork full of meat, before asking, "How 'bout giving me tomorrow off?"

He throws his napkin at you, your mom pretends to scold you, and even your dad lets out a laugh. Not too bad, considering. At least it breaks the ice.

Jo tells Sam about Benny, Ellen and Dad talk about beer, and Missouri casually starts talking about the handsome young man who works in the library and bought three chocolate-chip cookies from her today. Your face heats up, and you glare at your mom, but all she does is smile innocently at you and eat her dinner.

**Fact: Unexpected blowjobs to a guy who's not your boyfriend just makes things awkward.**

Bobby ends up giving you the rest of the week off, but he says it's for your mom, not for you.

On Wednesday morning, you, Sam, and Dad hover over Mom as she gets her first round of treatment, until she tells you all that the nurses are already sick of your concern and, if you really want to help out, go home and cook dinner.

So that's how you spend the rest of your week - hanging out with Sam, cooking meal after meal for your parents to eat or freeze, and just being a family. Mom seems fine after the chemo, maybe just a little tired - which isn't at all what you were expecting; in fact, a part of you was expecting chunks of hair to begin falling out the moment she got home that day.

Dad worries about her, though. He doesn't say anything in front of Sam, but he tells you about blood cells and vomiting and high temperatures, what's normal and what's not. You go home that night shaken, terrified at the thought of Mom ending up in the hospital because she has a high temperature that might turn into a cold that could possibly kill her.

You try not to let her see you worry, though. You even go to art class because you know she wants you to.

And it's weird.

You get there early because sitting around dreading it just isn't cool, and Sam's way too perspective for his own good asking why you're so tense and why you just can't keep still. And all the while, your mom sits at the kitchen table smiling at you, as if she knows exactly why you're so tense, and hell, she probably does.

Cas walks in late, just seconds after Pamela closes the door. He smiles at her, quickly apologises, and hurries to his seat next to you. And you do your best not to look at him, but it's hard, and maybe hard is a bad choice of words, because just being next to him is making you crazy.

You don't look at him while Pamela speaks, and you're pretty sure he doesn't look at you, but you can feel his heat, smell his cologne, taste his skin …

You concentrate on Pamela's words.

"Think of this as a final," she says. "There is no pass or fail in this class, but I want you to use what I've taught you on one piece of art, and that one piece of art has to be one part of the human body." She pauses to look around the class. "You've all got different talents - Chuck has abstract, Dean with free-hand, and Adam excels at black and white - use those talents. Use them, and at our last class next week, bring me a piece of someone."

Her words are all well and good, but your gaze goes to Cas' hands and you think about them drawing flower petals, picture his fingers surging through your hair, imagine them wrapped around your cock -

"Dean?"

You look at him, and heat rises to your cheeks. "Uh, hey, Cas."

His smile is somehow both kind and knowing. "How are you?"

You think about your mom and what she went through that day, and lie. "Great. You?"

"Not too bad," he says, and you don't know if it's just your imagination, but he does look a little more relaxed tonight than you've ever seen him before, and, yeah, you kind of want to put that down to what you did to him two nights ago.

But you don't. Because you can't think like that. You can't think about that.

"That's good," you say, and he smiles at you, eyes warm and blatant as he stares at you lips, and fuck it all for being so confusing. Everything feels like it used to; the hopeless yearning you have to touch Cas, the small smiles that pass between you, and the way you both stare at each other, lost.

But then nothing's like before, because you've sucked his cock and it changes everything because it's all you can think about when you're near him. You no longer wonder what it would be like to touch and taste, because now you know, and it makes this whole _friends-only_ things really crappy.

When class ends, without the chance for anymore conversation, it's a relief to get up and leave Cas. You're kind about it, not wanting things to be weird because of something you chose to do, but you're firm in it. No way are you going to get talked into a burger and beer at the Roadhouse, not when you know that will probably result in fucking in the back seat of your car.

Cas just smiles when you say goodbye, telling you to have a good day tomorrow and that he'll see you on Friday. And it's normal. Almost as if he's just any other guy. He's clearly not, but he's acting like … well, shit, he's acting like your friend and, other than how badly you want to touch him again, that's a good thing.

Hell, he didn't even try to bring up what happened Monday night, or make you talk about it. That in itself is progress, right?

Thursday and Friday are basically the same. You spend all day Thursday hanging around the family house, playing X-box with Sam, sneaking batter while Mom bakes, and helping Dad fix the uneven steps on the porch. That night, you and Sam stay up to marathon _Band of Brothers_ , and it never fails to impress you just how much ass Dick Winters kicked.

On Friday, you and Sam do the grocery shop for Mom while she naps, and maybe buy too many bags of Cheetos, but whatever. Mom's too happy having all her boys under one roof to really care, and simply throws a bag at each of you and tells you to enjoy your lunch.

Art class that night is no different to Wednesday, except for the fact that you forgot your favourite pencil and have to borrow Cas', and, yeah, his fingers brush against yours and you can feel them everywhere and your mouth waters. And, for one split second there, you almost wish you hadn't sucked him off in an alleyway behind a dumpster, because surely things wouldn't be so damn difficult if you hadn't.

You might still be angry, or you could have even been understanding to his words Monday night and stuck to being his friend, or there would just be lots of sexual tension. Instead you're pretty much over your anger, you don't know how you're going to just be his friend, and the sexual tension between the two of you is paramount.

"Dean?"

You blink and meet his gaze. "Yeah?"

"You're staring again."

"Oh. Uh …" All you can really do is look away and curse your blushing cheeks.

"It's okay," Cas says. "I am probably sitting closer than I ought to be."

You look, and he is. His chair is as close to yours as it can get without the two of you touching, and you stare some more as he shifts in his seat, rearranges his position, and you want to touch him, place your hand on his thigh and feel the heat from his skin. But all you do is look back at the lake you're drawing and turn away from Cas.

"Yeah, uh, you should probably move away."

"Too tempting?"

You shoot him a look, and now his face is flushed with heat. You know he was trying to make a joke - the kind of thing _friends_ do - but it's too much and you're definitely not at the stage in your friendship to be joking about temptation.

"Uh, never mind," he mutters.

And when he hunkers over the desk, continues to sketch what looks to be a steam punk zeppelin, you find yourself staring, wanting to bite at the juncture of his neck, run your palms over his back - especially since he's wearing that damn suit again - and just breathe him in. You want him; having had a taste of him should have made that disappear, but it's just made you want him even more.

Fact is, you're totally screwed.

**Fact: You're totally screwed.**

You're cleaning up empty pizza boxes and a couple of beer bottles after a night of hanging out with Sam and Jo, when there's a knock at your door. It's a little before midnight, and you can't say you're expecting to see Cas when you open the door, but there he is.

He doesn't say anything for a bit, so you silently take him in - the untucked shirt and crooked tie, the messier-than-usual hair, the dark circles under his eyes. You only saw him a few hours ago, but he looks like he's had a rough night, and you're pretty sure that's a tear in the sleeve of his shirt …

"I'm not entirely sure why I'm here," he finally says.

You nod. "Okay."

He stares at you and you stare back and you know what's going to happen if he comes inside. Because he might not know why he's there, and you have no idea what led him there, but it's the middle of the night and he's at your place and what the fuck else could possibly happen?

You open the door wider and gesture for him to enter.

He enters with a low sigh, and you close the door behind him. You want to ask, want to find out what happened to him tonight, why he looks so exhausted, what he's doing at your apartment in the middle of the night … but when you turn to face him, you just can't bring yourself to do it. There's a look in his eyes - a beseeching look that tells you he doesn't want to talk about it - and you get the feeling your own eyes might reflect that look, because you're sure it will be about Balthazar so you just don't want to know. You lock the door behind you and run a hand through your hair.

"Uh, drink?"

"Please."

You nod again and head over to the fridge to grab two beers. When you turn back to Cas, he's exactly where you left him, staring at you with nothing but longing. You swallow thickly, remind yourself that the two of you are just friends, and wonder if he's reminding himself of the same thing. Wonder if it even matters, because you don't think you've been _friends_ long enough to warrant emotional midnight visits.

You pop the cap off both beers as you head back to him, and you take a couple of steady breaths, just to reassure yourself that you can do this, that you can be alone with him without jumping his bones. But when you reach him and hand him one of the bottles, his pinky finger barely skims your index, and it sends a jolt of lust right fucking through you.

His breath hitches at that small touch alone, and you quickly take a step back, pretty sure you're heading into chick-flick territory with all the _electricity_ between you, but so long as Cas doesn't start blabbing about feelings and shit, then it's all good.

You take a long drink, looking at anything and everything but him - the couch and television behind him, the front door to the right of you, the kitchen counter behind you - then finally sigh. "So …"

He nods. "So."

And it's not exactly awkward, but the tension is painful and dangerous and so eager to be acted upon. You stare at Cas, watching and learning and taking in everything about him - how the tendons in his neck stretch when he tilts his head back to drink, the way his throat bobs with each swallow, the moisture left on his lips when he pulls the bottle away.

"Shit," you breathe.

"Dean?"

You meet his gaze, and you want to kiss that wetness away, replace it with your spit and desire and willingness to do whatever the fuck he wants so long as he kisses you back. Instead, you look away and take another long drink, telling yourself that asking him to leave now would just be rude and your mama didn't bring you up to be rude to guests.

"Class was good tonight," Cas says, and you nod.

"Yep."

"It's an interesting idea, just drawing one piece of the human body."

You glance at his hands. "Yeah."

He wipes the palm of his free hand on his pants, and when you look back up, his gaze is stuck firmly on your mouth, and Jesus fucking Christ, either he needs to leave or you need more to drink because this is killing you.

"Cas." And his name from your lips is a whisper that shouldn't be so goddamn torn.

But when he replies with only your name, it's all permission and acceptance and pleading, so you quickly finish your drink, watching as he does the same. And because you don't want him to leave yet - despite how little you'd be freaking out if he wasn't there - you gesture with your empty beer bottle.

"Another drink?"

He nods and you head back to the kitchen, and you can hear him following, but it's still a surprise when, the moment your hand wraps around the door handle, Cas is on you. He spins you around and closes his mouth over yours, kissing you hard, with an urgency you eagerly reciprocate, because you knew this would happen when you let him in and you've been half-hard since.

And now, with Cas' body forcing you back against the fridge, with his hands on your hips and his lips against your own, you're hard and you're reckless and you're sick of wanting and not having. Your hands on his face pull him closer, crash your mouths together - teeth and tongue and spit - and he groans low in his throat, reaching around to grab your ass.

You pull back with a messy sound, and whisper, "Fuck."

"Yes." He nuzzles into your neck, and you hear the need in his voice, the utter longing. "Don't stop, Dean. Please don't stop."

You let out a shaky breath and thread your fingers through his hair, and he pulls back to look at you - pupils dilated, cheeks flushed, lips full. "Not gonna stop, Cas, not this time."

And before he can say anything else, you kiss him. You kiss him and it's hungry and needy and fucking _right_ , and you've been denying yourself this - _him_ \- for too long now … but not tonight. He came to you tonight, and you can't keep saying no; you can't keep turning him down when you want him the way you do - as much as you do.

So you kiss him and you touch him and you tug at his shirt and tie until they both come off, buttons flying and scattering and totally cliché, but you don't care because Cas' skin - smooth, hard, warm skin - is beneath your hands and it's about fucking time. And you know you should take this to your bedroom, do this properly - because who the fuck knows if you'll get another chance - but you can't, because any second you spend not tasting the skin in front of you is a second wasted, and you're just not willing to waste a single one of them.

Cas' hands slide beneath your tee, fingers hot and skilled when they trail up your chest, taking your T-shirt with them, and the groan you let out when they skim your nipples is completely involuntary, utterly sinful, definitely the kind you should be ashamed of. But Cas just looks at you with wide, heated eyes, his breath coming in heavy pants as he stares at you and whispers your name.

It's too much. Your shirt is rucked up beneath your armpits and Cas is staring at you - looking fucking _wrecked_ \- and his fingers are splayed across your chest, and Jesus Christ you need him to do something, anything, everything.

"Cas." His name comes out as a strangled moan. "C'mon, man, do something."

Your voice seems to spur him back into action, and the nod he gives you makes your cock throb, because you've thought about this, a lot, but you know the actual physicality of it is going to be so much better than your fantasies; there's only so much your hand and a vivid imagination can do for you.

He divests you of your T-shirt and kisses you again. His hands roam your skin, his nails graze your sides, and all you want is more, so you suck his tongue into your mouth and thumb at his nipples and rock against him. He's hard, and you know what that looks like now, how that feels in your mouth, and that just makes it all the more beautiful.

"Dean." Cas palms you through your jeans, breathing erratic against your mouth. "Dean, bedroom."

You didn't want to waste seconds on moving to the bedroom, and as soon as the word leaves his mouth you have images of him in your bed, leaving your bed, never returning to your bed … but you're drunk on kisses and Cas and you can't say no to him tonight.

You lead the way, out of the kitchen and down the hallway - still kissing him, hands tugging at his belt, breath coming in raspy little pants - and get there quicker than expected, but your mind is a blur of wanting and needing and finally having, that it just doesn't matter.

Cas' knees hit the edge of the bed and you stop, watch in fascination as his hands go to his pants, unbuckling and unbuttoning, before you quickly pull your shit together and begin to do the same. He kicks his shoes and socks off, and his pants and boxers hit the floor the same time yours do.

And then he's shuffling up the bed and you're crawling after him and you're both naked and it's awesome. It's awesome when he pulls you in for a kiss, it's awesome when your damp body slides against his, and it's fucking awesome when your cock aligns up with his - dripping with pre-come and so hot it makes your insides melt.

You move against him a couple of times, relishing in the little noises he makes, the little kiss-roughened cries, but you can't keep doing this, you can't wait any damn longer. You pull away from the kiss, bite at his lower lip, wrap your hand around both of your cocks.

"Gonna fuck you now, Cas. That okay?" Your voice is husky, but it doesn't even compare to the guttural sound that comes from Cas.

"Yes, Dean, _yes_."

You hurry to reach for the lube and condoms in your nightstand, and you've got two fingers slicked up in no time, reaching for him, touching him, and he doesn't clench up when one slips inside, doesn't pull back or go tense. He sighs and pushes against you, silently urging for more.

So you slip in another and he chokes out your name, making all the wicked noises that verbalise everything you're thinking, everything you're feeling, and you stroke and press until you find the right spot and you just don't stop until Cas is an incoherent mess beneath you.

" _Dean_ , come on!" His legs squeeze around your waist and his nails dig into your shoulders and you're happy to oblige.

"Yeah," you say. "Yeah, okay."

You pull your fingers out and sit back, and when you roll the condom on, you hope like hell Cas can't see the way your hands shake, the way your whole body trembles when he squirts some lube onto his hand and wraps it around you, jerking once, twice.

"Christ, Cas." You push his hand away - because it's just too much - and hungrily kiss him, press him into the mattress, and slowly slide inside.

And it's hot and tight and so fucking _right_ that you're not sure you're going to be able to live the rest of your life without doing this again. Cas moans beneath you, long and loud, lifts his hips to meet you, and it's all the encouragement you need to fuck him like you've been wanting to for weeks.

You move and you kiss him and you breathe him in - sweat and ink and soap - and he whimpers beneath you, meeting you thrust for thrust, whispering your name against your lips. And _fuck,_ you're so close, too close. So you change your angle until Cas cries out, wrap your hand around his dick and stroke him until he comes, deep and powerful, against both your stomachs, and you follow straight after, grunting heavily into his neck.

And as you come down, the only sensation you can feel is his fingers stroking through your hair, nails gently scratching against your skull, and it's so nice and sweet and good. You don't care that it's totally mushy and girly, you just want it to last for as long as it can, but your eyelids are heavy and you're probably crushing Cas …

You lean up and look down at him, expecting to see guilt or detachment or something else as heart wrenching, but he's smiling up at you, looking so fucking relaxed and sated that post-sex cuddles seems okay. You pull out - heart lurching at the disappointed moan he gives - and quickly get rid of the condom, and as you turn away to throw it in the wastebasket, his hand smoothes over your back, up to your neck, onto your shoulder.

And when you turn to face him, he's waiting patiently for you to lie down next to him, to tangle your legs together with his, to pull him close the same way he does you. So you do it, and you breathe him in, and you fall asleep to the sound of his steady breaths against your chest.

**Fact: Cas in gone when you wake up in the morning.**

You can't even bring yourself to be surprised. Even worse, you can't even pretend it doesn't hurt.

**Fact: Misery doesn't always love company.**

Saturday night has you sulking. You can admit it, if only for the fact that you're alone so no one knows about it anyway. Jo's out on another date with Benny, and Sam's catching up with some high school friends who are still in town. He had invited you out with them, but you turned him down because you remember Sam's friends from high school, and they were a bunch of dorks.

Plus, you kind of want to sulk. You want to feel bad and be moody without someone trying to cheer you up.

So you sit at home alone, drinking beer and watching old reruns of _Friends_ , a part of you waiting for the knock at the door that you know will never come. And after a while, T.V - episodes of something you've already seen more than twice - becomes irritating, so you try your hand at drawing.

Half an hour later and all you have is four different sketches of hands. Cas' hands. And it pisses you off, so you screw the paper up, throw it somewhere over your shoulder, and go back to drinking.

On your sixth beer you pull out your phone and bring up Cas' number. You stare at it while you finish your beer, thumb hovering over the _call_ icon, kind of wishing you had thought to get yourself a picture, kind of knowing how lame that is.

On your eighth beer you put on some music, turn the volume right up, and blast "Seek and Destroy" over and over again, singing and air-guitar-ing like the drunken fool you are.

On your eleventh beer, you turn off Metallica, put on The Doors, and listen to Jim Morrison croon about swimming to the moon and falling through wet forests. With your hand down your pants and the memory of being inside Cas, you jerk off until you come.

You pass out on the couch, somewhat disappointed in the orgasm you just had.

**Fact: It's not a crush.**

You can't stop thinking about Cas. Not in the usual he's-so-hot-totally-wanna-fuck-him kind of way, either. More of the everything-reminds-you-of-him-this-isn't-fair-why- the-fuck-can't-he-be-yours kind of way. And it sucks. Like, seriously sucks ass.

You don't want to think about him like that. Hell, you don't want to think about anyone like that, and not just because, according to Jo, you're Mr. I-Don't-Have-Relationships-I-Just-Fuck-People-And- Then-Dump-Them, but because it kind of hurts. It hurts knowing that you'll never be like that with Cas again, and it hurts just as much knowing he's currently at home with his boyfriend.

And that makes you feel a little sick, because sharing a bed or not, they're together - they've had sex in the past and they're likely to have sex again, and the thought of someone else being with Cas is enough to make you wish you'd never let him into your apartment Friday night.

But you push it all away, not wanting to sulk in front of your parents and Sam. You drink a ton of coffee before you head off to breakfast, down a couple of aspirin, and make sure your clothes are clean. You don't need the third degree about being a drunk, or hung-over, or whatever else they decide to pick at.

Sam's sitting outside when you arrive, on the porch steps with his phone to his ear, and you've seen him with the damn thing attached to him all week so you know he's talking to Jess. It makes you happy that he's happy, it does, but it also makes your insides rage and resentful.

You ignore it, though, because it isn't Sammy's fault that Cas is a dick who couldn't even stick around for breakfast. Or, you know, wake you up to say goodbye - which, you can't figure out why the fuck that would bother you because … it's not like you have _feelings_ or anything.

Jo appears from inside just as you reach Sam, and she looks so full of fucking sunshine that you simply refuse to ask about her date. Which is a totally dick move of you, but you don't need everyone else's happiness rubbed in your face, thanks.

"Wow," Sam says, hanging up the phone. "Nice hickey."

You fake-laugh at him. "Nice one. Original. It's not like you said the same thing last weekend or anything."

"Yeah, only this time it's actually there."

"Bullshit."

Jo fidgets. "Well, actually."

And you want to play it casual, because they have to be messing with you, but …

You storm past them and into the downstairs bathroom, and shit. Fucking Cas. And when the hell did he do that? There was a lot of kissing and biting and sucking at all available skin, but you don't distinctly remember him doing this. Then again, you barely remember how you made it to your bedroom.

Jo enters the bathroom and closes the door behind her. "Unexpected hickey? I'm impressed."

"Shut it."

"Who did it?"

"No one."

"You know you can't lie to me, Winchester." She comes to stand next to you and places a small bag on the counter next to the sink. You watch her reflection in the mirror as she digs through the bag. "However, I'll make you a deal; you give me a name - just a name, no other details - and I'll get rid of your hickey."

"Oh yeah? And how you gonna do that?"

She pulls out a tube of something beige. "Concealer, of course."

"No."

"Dean." She sighs your name in exaggeration. "Unless you want Mommy and Daddy questioning you all morning you'll agree to this."

"But … make-up?"

"Know one will know, I swear."

You frown at her. "Sam will."

She outright grins. "Yes, well, you should have heard the things I heard Sam saying to his girlfriend through the phone when I arrived this morning. That kid knows I have blackmail material on him to last me years, and of course that immunity transfers to my best friend."

You don't want to do this - you _really_ don't want to do this - but you're not sure you have a choice. When you weigh up visible love bite or a tiny bit of make-up …

"Fine," you grit out, "but it better be subtle."

"Of course." Jo smiles, all innocence. "All I need now is a name. Who gave you the hickey?"

You cock an eyebrow at her. "Kenicki? It's practically a Hallmark card."

She snorts. "You wish, now spill."

"Fine. But no other details, right?"

"Right."

You say nothing for a moment, knowing Jo will have a hell of a time finding out it was Cas and then not asking anymore questions. You're having a hard enough time not calling Cas and asking him every question you have yourself; for Jo, it will be torture.

Which might be fun.

"It was Cas."

Her mouth opens, closes, her eyes narrow and she purses her lips. Finally, "He has a boyfriend."

"Yep."

She's silent, not looking at you as she opens the concealer and pulls out a brush. She goes to work on your neck, frowning slightly as she does. And you wait, definitely feeling weird at having Jo apply make-up to you - and maybe seven years old again - and knowing she won't be able to simply say nothing.

Once finished, the hickey is gone, and as she packs up her things, Jo looks at you.

"One question, but I'm not after details."

You nod slowly. "Okay."

"He has a boyfriend, but he gave you a hickey, and I don't know what happened between the two of you whenever this happened, but … do you need me to beat him up for you?"

You're not sure what it says about Cas that this is the second time Jo's offered to do this for you. You ruffle her hair and lead the way out of the bathroom.

"You're a good friend, Joanna Beth."

"Ha, I think you mean best. I'm the best friend."

And, for once, you can't even argue with her.

**Fact: The idea of not seeing Cas again makes you weak.**

You put seeing Cas again out of your mind, and it's a lot easier than expected, especially when he doesn't call or text.

You're back at work, which definitely helps, and it's just a simple matter of _not thinking about it_. It's hard at first, but you're so sick of dreading art class, that every time you do think about it, you just push it out of your mind and think about something else - going to the movies tomorrow night with Sam, the knocking noise Baby was making on the way to work that morning, the particularly low-cut shirt Bela is wearing that day.

Simple.

Until you turn up to class and realise you're about to face what you've been avoiding since Sunday morning. Cas came to your apartment in the middle of the night, he kissed you in your kitchen, he had sex with you and left before you woke.

He used you? You don't want to be a total girl about it, but yeah, you're pretty sure you've just been used for a late-night booty call, even though you thought you meant more to him that that, and yeah, you're being a total girl about it.

But you just don't care, because he totally used you and now you're pissed.

As usual, you arrive to class earlier than Cas, and, as usual, you avoid his gaze when he walks in. But you can't seem to help yourself, and you turn to look at him once he's sitting next to you, because you might have only seen him Friday night - early Saturday morning, whatever - but he's so damn hot that you have to look.

He smiles at you, his shirt collar open, and you wonder how he explained the hickey on his collarbone to his boyfriend.

Unless it was his boyfriend who gave it to him, of course.

He sees you looking and his smile widens. "I had to wear turtlenecks all weekend; I hope you're happy."

And you are, in a bitter, angry kind of way. You say nothing, but it hits you that Cas cheated on his boyfriend on Friday night - his long-term boyfriend - and he doesn't seem to feel that bad about it at all. In fact, as you take in the heated look in his eyes and the way he stares at you, you're pretty sure you feel more guilty than he does.

Pamela arrives before you can say anything, and begins talking right away.

"Last week of classes, people! I hope you're all underway with your final piece of art work, because it is due the moment you walk in here Friday evening. No, I won't hand out extensions, because the second you all walk out of here Friday night is the last time we will ever see each other." She pauses, smiles saucily. "Makes you sad, doesn't it?"

And you should be thinking about your final piece of art work - even though all you've been able to sketch lately is Cas' hands - but your mind freezes on Pamela's other words, because if this is the last week of class then you have no reason, no excuse, to see Cas anymore. And the idea that you might actually never see him again after Friday is enough to make breathing difficult.

Once Pamela finishes, you turn to Cas, feeling stricken but not saying anything.

He stares at you for a long moment before saying, "Dean, do we need to talk about what happened Friday night?"

You can't help yourself. "You mean about you cheating on your boyfriend?"

He looks guilty, but his gaze doesn't stray. "That's something I have to live with - something I'm prepared to live with."

"Really? You're happy to live with the knowledge that you screwed around on your boyfriend? Someone you've been friends with since college?"

"What I am, is happy when I'm with you."

You sigh. "Jesus, Cas."

He doesn't say anything for a while, and every time you glance at him, his face is conflicted and tense. You don't know if he's conflicted and tense about you or about cheating on Balthazar, but you're not about to ask. You were wrong before; he does feel guilty. But you don't want to hear about it or see it in his eyes.

So you avoid talking to him, you concentrate on your sketch, you try to forget about never seeing him again after Friday.

"Dean?" His hand is on your arm and class is more than halfway over. "Would you like to talk about what happened?"

And, for once, you probably should say yes, sure, let's talk about what happened - for once, you actually kind of want to - but Pamela's words have gone and scared the bejeezus out of you. So you shake your head. "No, I don't think so."

"Okay." He gives you a nervous smile. "So, shall I come over tonight?"

"Yeah, Cas, that sounds good."

**Fact: It's not a fucking crush.**

Cas sucks cock the same way he draws - intensely, beautifully, skilfully. He's dedicated to the cause, intent and concentrated on what he's doing, touching and tasting you as though you're something exquisite, something important, something that needs to be treated with devotion and desire. Just like every flower or cat or raging inferno he draws.

It makes what he's doing to you so much more than just a blowjob, and you're not sure how you feel about that, because this sappy shit just isn't you.

"Christ, Cas." You thread your fingers through his hair as he licks at his come-slicked lips and slips his fingers out of you, and in the light of the lamp on your nightstand, he looks fucking gorgeous, and letting him fuck you for a second time that night isn't something you'd say no to.

He comes to lie next to you, a satisfied smile on his face, and you kiss him, pull him closer, taste yourself on his tongue, and wonder if you can convince him to stay for breakfast this time. You doubt it, but if this is only going to last until Friday then you want to make the most of it. You'll take anything and everything you can get, while you can still get it.

"I assume you enjoyed that?" he asks once he's pulled back.

"You're damn right I did."

He smirks, clearly pleased with himself, and lies on his back next to you. You take the moment of silence to watch him - the small smattering of chest hairs, the extra three hickeys you purposely gave him, the smooth skin of his hips.

You don't want him to leave.

"What are you drawing for art class?" he asks, turning on his side to look at you, and you turn to face him. "For the piece of the human body."

"Dunno yet," you say, and it's almost completely a lie because you're not sure you'll ever be able to draw anything other than Cas' hands again.

"Neither do I," he says, only you can tell he's telling the truth. A sly grin breaks out on his face. "Think Pamela would mind if I handed in a sketch of your dick?"

"You're not drawing my dick."

"Who says I haven't already? I didn't get a great look at it Friday night, but I have a very vivid imagination."

You stare at him with narrowed eyes, wondering how serious he's being and desperately enjoying the flirtatious lick of his lips. His hand laces with yours, and it's all kinds of romantic, but you don't pull away. You kind of like it. You like having him here, with you, in your bed, and you want him here, with you, in your bed more often.

"You're not drawing my dick," you tell him again, ferociously ignoring every other thought in your brain.

"Try and stop me."

"You draw my dick and I'll hand in a full nude sketch of you."

He laughs. "But the piece is only supposed to be one part of the human body."

You scoff. "I'll give you one part of the human body." And it's supposed to be a stupid comeback, but Cas grins and shuffles closer and slides a knee between your thighs.

"Please do."

**Fact: Mary Winchester is a sneaky sneak.**

Mom smiles when you approach her, and you're pretty damn happy to see she's still carrying her work basket. You're not exactly thrilled that she's working while she's sick, but she claims she feels fine and that it keeps her mind busy, and she agrees to meet you for lunch most days. And, hey, if it means she smiles and you get baked goods for lunch then you'll go with it.

"Hello, darling, how was your morning?"

You give her a quick hug. "Good. Ordered a new timing belt for the Impala, pissed off Bela, and convinced Bobby to let me work on the GTO that's coming in this afternoon."

You know that normally she would frown and pretend to scold you for pissing off Bela, but she just grins and pats your arm. "You take too much pleasure in teasing that poor girl."

"Gotta get my kicks somehow."

"Well if picking on Bela is how you do that, then so be it." She slips her free hand through your arm. "Let's walk around town while we eat; I haven't quite finished my run but would love your company."

You let her take the lead and listen to her talk about her morning and the new cakes she and Missouri want to test out.

"We've always avoided entire cakes because if they don't sell too well we end up with a heap left over, but I need something new and exciting to keep me busy, so I'm going to look up some recipes this afternoon."

"Sounds good, Mom. I put in a vote for a Boston Cream Cake."

"I'll keep that in mind. And since I haven't made it since you and Sam were kids, I'll have to give you the first batch to test out."

You grin. "Awesome."

She leads the way up some stairs, and you ask her what she's got leftover today.

"Plenty," she says, and smiles. "I packed a little extra for you."

Your mom, she's the best. You open the door for her and it's not until you're inside the well-lit building that you realise she's led you straight into the library. You pause, mouth going dry, and she turns to look at you.

"What are we doing here?" You're whispering, and not because it's a library.

Her eyes widen. "I told you, sweetheart, I'm not quite finished with my run yet."

"Yeah, but … I - I thought the library was on Missouri's route, not yours."

"Oh, didn't I tell you? We've swapped routes for the time being. Hers is a little quicker and easier, so she insisted."

And despite the innocence she's radiating, you know better. " _Mom_."

"Yes, dear?" She cocks an eyebrow, waiting for you to say something about Cas, but you won't because you can't lie to her and the truth will just upset her. So you huff out a breath.

"Nothing."

"That's what I thought. Come on."

She heads straight for the desk behind you and you turn to see Cas, standing there and staring at you, and wearing that goddamn suit. Your cheeks flush at the sight of him, and everything you did to him the night before, everything he did to you, comes back to you in a rush of heat and lust.

"Mrs. Winchester, lovely to see you again," he says when you approach him, and you know him well enough to know he's not just being polite.

"Lovely to see you, too, Castiel. I hope you don't mind that I brought Dean along with me today."

Cas grins at you, and not-so-subtly checks you out. "Not at all. How are you, Dean?"

You glare at him. "Great."

"Wonderful! And you, Mrs. Winchester? How are you today?"

"Please, call me Mary," she tells him, and you wouldn't mind all that much if you just died right now. "And I'm doing very well, thank you. We can't stay long, unfortunately; it's such a lovely day out that I want to make the most of it and have lunch with Dean at the park before spending tomorrow in the hospital."

No. _No_. She did not just do that. You stare at her, wide-eyed, and you can feel the blood drain from your face.

" _Mom_."

She looks at you, genuinely innocent this time. "Yes?"

"The hospital?" Cas asks, and his voice is cautious, wary, and you want to tell him to shut the fuck up because it's none of his damned business. "Is everything okay?"

"Oh." Mom looks at you sadly, comprehension dawning on her face. She gives you a small smile that looks more like a grimace before she turns back to Cas. "Yes. Everything will be fine -

You leave. You turn your back on her and Cas and leave the damn library because you can't stand there and listen to her tell Cas that she's going to be just fine when she doesn't know it for sure. So you leave and you know it's rude and that she doesn't deserve it, but you do it anyway.

She follows you a moment later and grabs your hand. "I'm sorry, sweetheart, I thought you had told him."

"Why would I tell him?"

"Well …" She gives you a look. "I know you said there's nothing going on, but I know a make-up covered hickey when I see one."

All that blood just rushes back to your face. "Jesus."

You stare at her and she grins and goddamn that son of a bitch. No more hickeys, Cas. Ever again. And, though you specifically didn't want to lie to her, you know you're going to have to, because if she finds out about Cas then she'll want to know more and you just can't disappoint her right now.

"It wasn't Cas," you say.

"Oh. I see." And she seems disappointed, but she smiles. "Well, I hope it was someone just as nice. You deserve someone nice, Dean."

You nod. "Yeah, Mom, it was someone nice." And now you can't tell whether you're lying or not.

**Fact: You don't do chick-flick moments.**

Cas doesn't say anything the following night. He never called after Mom's planned visit to the library on Tuesday, and he's already in class when you arrive Wednesday night. You take your seat next to him, pull out your sketch book and pencils, and wait. You're not sure what you're waiting for, but you know there's bound to be questions.

_What's wrong with your mother? Is everything okay? Don't you think you should talk about why your mother is spending the day in the hospital?_

Because Cas is all about trying to get you to talk.

But you get nothing. No questions, no smiles, not even one glance.

So you sit on your ass and ignore him right back. You didn't do anything wrong, after all. Right? It's not like Cas is your boyfriend who you're supposed to tell every detail of your life to. Cas already has a boyfriend to do that for him. You and Cas? You're … fucking, you suppose. Friends who fuck, which, really, is something you thought you'd grown out of years ago, and the fact that it's exactly what you and Cas are doing makes you angry, and being angry about Cas makes you even angrier because fuck.

Cas, the goddamn son of a bitch, makes you angry and he makes you happy and he makes you hurt. He's turned you into a fucking nutcase who can't keep one mood for any decent period of time. The best you can do is fake indifference to him and anything related to him while you're at work; after that, your mind can go from relaxed to fucking psychotic in seconds.

But you keep your cool in class, and you quietly sit next to him and sketch variations of his hands, just not caring if he catches you and figures out what you're drawing. He doesn't catch you, though; he continues to not even look at you until class is over and Pamela is reminding you that you're final piece is due _this_ Friday.

Once your things are packed up, you turn to leave, but find him looking at you. He doesn't look angry, but there's a determined glint in his eyes and you know he'll do his best to win this battle, to make you talk.

"Hello, Dean. Let's go get a beer."

"Huh?"

He smiles. "A beer. And maybe some dinner."

"Look, Cas -"

"It's just beer and dinner," he insists.

You sigh. "Yeah, okay." Because, yeah, okay, dinner and beer you can do. You're pretty sure it'll lead to him asking questions - questions you'll evade - but you still want to be near him. You just spent your second-to-last art class ever not speaking to him, and you need to fix that by spending time with him.

He doesn't speak on the way to the Roadhouse, and neither do you, but it's not awkward; it's relaxed and easy and any anger you previously felt disappears into the cold night, because being with Cas - even just walking the short walk to the Roadhouse - makes you feel good, even when he's part of the reason you were originally angry.

Once full of smiles when you walked in with Cas, Jo purses her lips and crosses her arms when she spots you. And you let it go, because she's your best friend and she's looking out for you. But you do take Cas straight to a table instead of the bar, knowing it won't be good for him to be in Jo's general vicinity until the girl has some time to calm herself.

I'm sorry if I've seemed rude tonight," Cas says as soon as you're both sitting. "It's just that your mom came to see me again this afternoon, so I figured our conversation should be left for once we were out of class."

Your eyes widen. "She did what?"

He smiles, even lets out a soft laugh. "Yes. She didn't tell me anything that you don't seem to want me to know - claims it isn't her place - but she did apologise."

You scoff and lean back in your seat. "Seriously? I know I probably shouldn't have just taken off like that, but she really didn't need to do -"

"That's not what she apologised for."

"Oh. Then what was she talking about?"

Cas won't meet your gaze for a moment, and when he finally does he seems uncertain, almost shy.

"She's very intuitive, your mother. I believe her exact words were 'It sometimes takes Dean a while to see what's right in front of him, and I'm sorry that he hasn't seen you yet'."

You shake your head. "I don't get it."

"Like I said, she's intuitive; she seems to realise, possibly better than you do, just how much I wish I could be with you."

You snort, open your mouth to say something, but nothing comes out because you don't know what to say to that. Sure, Cas has told you before that he likes you a whole lot more than he likes his boyfriend, that he has feelings for you, that he'd leave his boyfriend for you if he could … but none of that proves anything, really. Not when he still goes home to said boyfriend every night.

Whatever it is that your mom sees, you're totally missing it.

"However," Cas continues, "as perceptive as she is toward my feelings for you, she seems to think someone else left those hickeys on your neck. That's what she was apologising for - that I had to see them when I obviously care for you."

"Right." You pause to think through your words. "She asked. I told her it was someone else."

"I see."

You're trying to work through this whole thing in your head, wondering if it's okay to be mad at your mom for butting in even though she's got cancer, when Jo turns up with your drinks.

"Didn't wanna interrupt the intense conversation goin' on here," she says, placing two drinks on the table, "so I took a guess."

You look at the drinks. Yours is whiskey neat; Cas' is a bottle of the cheap-ass beer even Ash won't touch. But Cas takes it without complaint, even thanking Jo and giving her a warm smile, to which she replies with a grimace before leaving.

"Look, I couldn't tell her it was you, okay? She likes you - I mean, she told Sam about you before there was even anything to tell - and I just … she hardly knows you, but she seems to have her heart set on me and you - you know, being together, and I couldn't get her hopes up."

"Would it really be so bad if she knew about us?"

"You mean if she knew that we're fucking even though you're in a committed relationship? Yeah, it would be."

Cas actually flinches at your words, but you can't bring yourself to feel bad about them, not when all you can think about is how ashamed of you Mom would be if she knew you were … shit, _the other man_? You don't know what's going to happen after art class on Friday, but you do know that you and Cas are pretty much having an affair, and you couldn't stand for her to ever know about it.

"Are you going to bring that up every time you're angry with me?" he asks, and he sounds so sad and hurt that you almost want to feel bad for him.

"I'm just stating the facts, man. My ma's a good lady - the best - and she doesn't need to know that the guy she thinks would be perfect for her son has been stringing him along for weeks."

Cas' head shoots up at that. "That's what you think I've been doing?"

You shrug, not sure what it is you think he's been doing. "Whatever, man."

"Dean." He leans over to place his hand atop of yours on the table. "I care for you very deeply; so much so that your mother noticed even though she's only ever met me three times - and two of those were over the last two days."

"Uh-huh."

"If she can see it, then why can't you?"

Probably because he's a jackass and full of mixed fucking signals, but you don't say that. He's now making you uncomfortable, though, because you don't want to be having an affair, but you don't want to do this bullshit, chick-flick, talking-about-feelings business either. So you pull your hand away and run it over your face.

"Can we not talk about this?"

He nods. "Okay. Let me change the subject then. Whatever it is you don't want me to know, whatever it is that had you running from the library yesterday, I won't ask. I know you well enough by now to know you won't want to talk about it, but when you do, I'll be there."

"Jesus, Cas, you sound like Sam."

"I can't believe that's a bad thing."

"Do we really have to do all this emo-crap? Can't we just, I dunno, drink beer and eat burgers and fuck?"

"Well, Dean, when you put it that way, I'm actually not that hungry."

**Fact: This is something you could get used to.**

Cas dozes that night, sleepy and sated in your bed. He seemed to know you were still a little angry when you got back to your place, and he egged you on, moaned your name and writhed against you until you groaned and bit and fucked the anger out.

Afterwards he smirked. "I should make you angry more often."

You said nothing, but a litany of _please don't, please don't, please don't_ , went through your head until he grasped your hand and closed his eyes. And even then, it took everything you had not to pull away, lock yourself in the bathroom, and convince yourself that you're not the piece of shit Cas is making you feel like.

Now he's snoring softly next to you, body naked, sweat cooling, and you refuse to wake him. If you wake him, he'll leave, and you want him to stay exactly where he is, for the whole night, all of tomorrow, the rest of the week.

_Forever_ runs through you head at lightening speed, quick enough for you to ignore. Ignore it, and stare at Cas, trying to hate him, totally hating yourself, pretty sure you're just being used by a guy who will leave you within the next hour. He'll just wake up, throw on his clothes, and casually leave you. Again.

It takes less than an hour. Cas wakes after almost twenty minutes, and with a lazy kiss goodbye, he leaves to go get his car, and you're left feeling cheap and nasty and hurt. You don't fall asleep until you've downed a third of a bottle of Jack.

**Fact: You should be stronger.**

On Thursday, Dad has to work late and Sam's needs a ride home from the mall. You laugh at him when you arrive to pick him up, because the mall is just not the kind of place you and Sam go, but whatever. He's got a couple of small bags in his hand, and you're willing to bet money they're for Jess.

You give him a nod. "Victoria's Secret, huh?"

"What?" And he frowns as though he genuinely doesn't get it.

"The bags. A couple of pretty panties for the lady …" You finish with a wink and a nudge.

"No, these are for Mom."

"You bought underwear for mom?"

"No, gross, Dean, it's hand cream and stuff." He opens one bag to show you the lotion. "I got some perfume for her, too, and bubble bath. You know, just so she can pamper herself a little when she feels sick."

You nod, feeling like a total shit. "Yeah, good idea."

"I'll tell her they're from both of us."

You want to tell him he doesn't have to do that, but you know it's pointless and that he'll do it anyway, so you nod again and begin to drive. The ride home is silent and comfortable, and when you arrive, Sam's snoring loudly in the passenger seat. You look at him, look at the lotion and perfume he just bought, and it's really fucking tempting - you're grinning just thinking about it - but Mom deserves the gifts more than you deserve an easy prank.

"C'mon, Gigantor, we're home."

He wipes the drool away from his chin and extracts his gangly limbs from the car while you watch, once again wondering how the hell he even manages to fit himself anywhere.

"You stayin' for dinner?" he asks, following you up the pathway.

"Depends who's cooking."

"I think it's Dad's turn, so you should expect burgers … or steak."

Your stomach grumbles. "Sounds good, man."

You use your own key to unlock the door when you get there, pushing it open and opening your mouth to call out and let Mom know you and Sam are both home, but she's right there, kneeling on the hallway floor, surrounded in vomit.

And you freeze, unsure what to do or think or say, because she's still throwing up, a constant stream of puke hurling from her mouth as she empties her stomach, some of it splattering on her pretty blue sweater, while other bits get caught in her hair. And she looks awful and sounds awful, because her eyes are red and her skin is sallow and she can hardly breathe, only wheezing in broken gasps when she can.

Sam's at her side in an instant, and you feel sick at not doing the same, but you just can't move from where you are. You stand and you watch him pull her vomit-streaked hair away from her pale face, rub at her back, repeat soothing words to her until she stops throwing up and is able to get her breath back. Only then do you move, pulling out your phone to call for an ambulance.

"No," she says, and her voice is croaky.

You look at her, shocked. "You need to go to the hospital."

"I'm okay, Dean."

"There's puke everywhere!" And you don't mean to yell at her, you really don't, but she's sick and she needs help and you don't know how else to help her other than to call and ask for it.

She uses Sam for balance as she shakily stands. "Which is very normal after chemo. You were there the first day, Dean, you heard what the nurses said."

"Yeah, but -"

"But nothing." And she sounds so calm, so in control, that you almost back down because she's your mom and she makes the rules. "I've been feeling a little off all day and simply didn't make it to the bathroom. If I had, we wouldn't be having this conversation."

"Only because I wouldn't know just how sick you are."

She frowns. "I don't need this right now, Dean. If you really want to help, call your father and ask him to bring home some ginger tea and water crackers. I'm going to clean this up then have a bath."

Sam stops her from heading into the kitchen and hands her the gift bags. "I'll clean this up, you just go relax."

She looks into the bags and smiles softly. "You two are very good to me."

And that's bullshit because you're still standing exactly where you stopped when you entered the house. Sam's the one who helped her, Sam's the one who's cleaning up her mess, and Sam's the one buying her nice things. You're just the shit who yelled at her.

Sam gives you a look when she leaves, and it's one you can't quite decipher; you don't know if he's pissed at you for pissing off Mom, or if he agrees with you and is just as worried as you are. You don't ask him, though, you just do as you were asked and call your dad.

**Fact: You're not drunk, but you're definitely getting there.**

You haven't been home long - maybe an hour, just enough time for a steaming hot shower and half a dozen swigs of whiskey. And what damn fine swigs they were, creating the beginning of a buzz and helping you calm the fuck down.

But it's not enough, and that in itself is a problem, but an even bigger problem is that your mom is sick, really fucking sick, and there's not a damn thing past calling your dad and helping cook dinner than you can do about it. You can't fix her, like you would a car. You can't do anything, and it makes you feel shittier than usual.

So now you're home and it's late and all you're wearing is jeans, but you don't give a shit.

Cas phone rings for a long time before he answers it. "Dean?"

"Hey."

"Is everything okay?"

And the genuine concern in his voice makes tears prick at your eyes, but you close them, push the tears back, because you're not even close to being that drunk yet.

"Yeah, Cas, everything's okay, it's just - uh … shit, man."

"Dean?"

"Look, I know we don't usually see each other on Thursdays, but can you come over?" The words are out of your mouth before you can stop them, and obviously this is why you called Cas in the first place, but you never meant to sound so damn pathetic. And you know all this, but you can't seem to stop. "Please? I just … I gotta to see you, Cas."

He's silent for a long moment before answering. "I'll be there in fifteen minutes."

And in thirteen-and-a-half minutes, he's there, flushed and panting and looking for all the world like he ran the two flights of stairs it took him to get to your apartment. And maybe he did.

You let him in, but you don't let him say anything. You press him against the closed door and kiss him, touch him, do everything and anything it takes to get a quick response out of him, and he obliges, more than willingly. His fingers plough through your hair and he kisses you just as hard, digs his fingers into your skin just as hard, wants just as hard.

And you're already half-naked, so you don't see any point in taking your time, not when Cas is there and he's willing. You pull his coat off him and let it fall to the floor, tug at his T-shirt until he's as naked as you, but then he stops you, his warm hands framing your face.

"Dean, wait." He looks at you, eyes searching, thumbs brushing your cheekbones. "What happened?"

Rage boils up inside of you - and it's not like you weren't already angry and frustrated and terrified to begin with - because what fucking right does he have to ask you that? He's fucking you, and you're fucking him - that's it.

"You said you wouldn't ask," you growl. Shaking, you grip his T-shirt hard, pull him close enough that your angry breath washes over his skin. "You said you wouldn't ask. You said you wouldn't -"

He cuts you off with his mouth against yours, and he seems to have gotten the picture, because his hands slip down the back of your jeans, cupping and squeezing your ass cheeks, pulling you flush against him. His teeth nip at your lips, his nails dig into your flesh, and yes, this is exactly what you want, exactly what you need.

You pull away and spin the both of you around, force him back the few steps it takes before you can shove him onto the couch. He falls, lands roughly on his back, and he grins. He fucking grins, and with his heated eyes, messy hair, and unshaven jaw, he's raw fucking sex appeal staring up at you.

And he just lies there. You know what he's doing, that he's giving you every bit of control you need, and there's a dizzy-sick part of you that falls in love with him then and there, but you ignore it in favour of climbing on top of him and sucking, laving, biting at his chest. But you don't waste anytime because you're in serious danger of falling apart and Cas is already hard beneath you, so you get rid of his clothes, wriggle out of your own, and - after very little prep - he rolls over and tells you to fuck him.

So you fuck him, hard and fast and rough, until he's crying out from under you, begging you to just touch him already so he can fucking come, but you don't touch him and you don't let him touch himself until you're good and ready. Because you need this to last, you need to stay in control of _something_ in your life. So you move, your hips snapping against ass, grunts falling from your mouth each time he fucks himself back against you.

But you're so close, and even more than wanting to stay in control, you need to come, you need to let go, and you need to do it with Cas.

You dig your fingers into his hips, mutter indecent words about how good and tight he feels around your dick, and he comes, untouched. And it's all you need to push you over the edge, and you come inside him, furious and hopeless and wrecked - barely registering the fact that you never put on a condom, that he never told you to put on a condom - and Cas, he just moans your name over and over.

Exhausted and shaky, you pull out and collapse onto the couch, careful not to crush Cas while your at it, and lie there next to him. You don't know how long you lie there for, huddled up next to him, your lips against his neck, but after a while he does some kind of tricky manoeuvre, shifting you both until you're under him and he's peppering kisses all over your face. And it's dumb and girly and nice.

It's a while later when he noses at your jaw, and you can't seem to keep your trap shut.

"She has cancer."

He goes still above you, no longer kissing you, no longer nuzzling at your skin, and you wish he would because you miss it immediately. He lets out a long, drawn-out sigh before pulling back to look at you.

"That's terrible, Dean."

"Yeah."

He waits, holding himself up by one elbow while the fingers of his free hand thread through the hairs on the nape of your neck, and even though you don't want to talk about it, words fly out of your mouth anyway.

"She's gonna lose her hair." And you know it barely compares to the chemo and how sick she was that night the fact that she might _die_ , but it's the one thing you've seen her upset about since she told you, and that memory makes _you_ feel sick.

"It will grow back.

"And in the mean time?"

"In the mean time she gets a wig."

You look up at Cas in the dark apartment, and he's smiling kindly down at you and you're not sure if that's what you want - his kindness, his smiles, his _pity_. You wriggle, suddenly unsure where to put your hands now that they feel more than a little awkward on his back, but then he presses his lips to yours.

And he kisses you and touches you and it's all give and no take, and you let him; you let him kiss and touch and take over, because you had control and you got what you needed, and now it feels good to let Cas do the work, to let him take control.

He doesn't need to do much more than kiss you deeply and touch you softly, and with the contrasting pressure of the two it doesn't take you long to get hard again. And then you're begging Cas, telling him to fuck you, and all he does is run his hands inside your thighs, and mouth at your neck.

And he's talking to you, saying all kinds of pleasingly-filthy words that surround you and make your skin tingle, that have you trembling like a fucking leaf beneath him. But then he's in you, and he fucks you deep and unhurried, taking his time as he murmurs into your skin. He moves slowly, agonisingly so, until you're coming powerfully, his name a whispered moan on your lips. And Cas, he just keeps kissing you until you fall asleep beneath him.

**Fact: Nobody likes goodbyes.**

Cas has his moments of being a total ass - not telling you about his boyfriend being one of them - but usually he's pretty awesome. The fact that, come your last ever art class Friday evening, he doesn't once mention the bad parts of the night before is fucking great.

He hands Pamela his final piece of art work before sitting next to you with a smile, and you once again cringe at the piece of crap you handed in, the piece of crap you hastily finished in your lunch break that day.

"Hello, Dean."

"Hey, Cas. You okay?" Because he looks exhausted, and you know for a fact you didn't keep him up all night.

"Of course. Why wouldn't I be?"

"You look exhausted, man …" You smirk. "Thoroughly fucked, in fact."

He _hmms_. "That must be from the thorough fucking you gave me last night."

"Could be."

He smiles. "That, and I was up the rest of the night working on my piece for Pamela."

"Oh yeah? What'd you draw?"

"What did _you_ draw?" And he smiles a knowing smile because he damn well _knows_ ; you've been unable to draw anything but his hands this last week, and he's definitely seen you.

So you ignore him, confident that he didn't hand in a piece of artwork, a drawn piece of your body, that would be NC-17. Fairly confident. Mostly sure.

Class goes faster than you'd like, and before you know it Pamela is waving you all out the door, promising to send you back your final piece along with notes and thoughts in the coming week or two. You get up and follow Cas out, heart thudding the whole way because this is it. This could very well be the last time you see him.

He turns to face you, leaning close. "Your place?"

"Uh … no."

"Oh. I see."

You shift, not sure how to tell Cas that, if this is the last time you're with him, then you just can't face seeing him in your bed. So you lie. "Sam's there, hanging out."

"Ah." He nods, relaxing. "We could go for a drive."

And screwing him in the back seat of the Impala sounds almost as distressing as having him in your bed, but the thought of it is so freaking hot and messy and wrong that you nod immediately. There's no way in hell you can turn that down.

So you drive as far and as fast as you can, pull into some hidden side street off the highway, and let Cas climb on top of you, let him straddle your waist and rub up against you. And you pretend, the whole time your fucking up into him, that this isn't the last time, that this is just another time, that this doesn't have to be the end.

The drive back to his car is silent, and the kiss goodbye he gives you is deep and lingering and _feels_ like goodbye. But you say nothing, just kiss him back and force a smile as he climbs out, and wave when you drive off.

**Fact: Sam really is there when you get home.**

Leaning against your door, hair a tousled mess, with half a bottle of bourbon dangling dangerously from his fingers. When you see him, you do a quick straightening of your clothes, because a sober Sam giving you shit about looking like you just got laid is bad enough - you don't want to deal with a drunk Sam giving you the same shit.

"Dean!"

"Hey, Sammy."

He smiles his big, dopey smile and lifts up the bottle. "Drink?"

And you know that encouraging your little brother to drink is being a bad influence, but you just can't bring yourself to care. You let him inside and go to grab some alcohol of your own, before plopping down on the couch next to him.

"Rough night?" you ask, handing him an open beer.

"Rough week and a half, more like."

"I hear ya."

You clink beer bottles and drink in silence for a while, until Sam breaks it with the stuff you just don't want to talk about.

"Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"She was pretty sick yesterday, huh?"

You sigh. "Look, Sam -"

"She's gonna get worse," he slurs. "The more chemo she has, the worse she's gonna get. You know she could end up in hospital?"

"I know."

"And what if it's all for nothing, huh? What if the chemo doesn't even work, and all this throwing up -"

" _Sam_ , shut up."

"But, Dean." And, honest to God, he actually whines.

"No." You look at him, taking in his red-rimmed eyes and ashen skin. "It ain't gonna happen, Sammy, you hear me? She's gonna be just fucking fine, and if you tell me otherwise again, I will punch you in the mouth. Got it?"

Sam nods. "Got it. She's gonna be fine."

"She's gonna be fine."

Sam passes out not long later, leaving you alone with your mind and the overwhelming thoughts he put there. Without his conscious company, you drink yourself stupid and pass out next to him.

**Fact: It's a small world, after all.**

Jo has Saturday night off, and insists that you and Sam come along to what's going a be a _bitchin' party_ at Benny's apartment. Benny himself won't be there until after the kitchen at the Roadhouse closes, but that doesn't seem to matter to Jo.

"His flatmates are cool, and I've seen the amount of liquor they've bought in preparation for this; there's no way I'm turning up late just because my boyfriend won't be there."

You smirk at her. "Boyfriend?"

"Whatever. Are you guys coming or not?"

Sam, looking bleary-eyed and sick, shakes his head no. "Uh, think I might skip this one. You guys have fun."

Jo looks at you and you nod. "I'm in." Because you could really use an excuse to get absolutely shit-faced again, and Mom being sick, Cas having a boyfriend, and probably never seeing Cas again just isn't cutting it anymore. It's all very depressing and destructive, and you want to go out with Jo and have some fucking fun.

She picks you up that night, looking pretty killer in her red dress and heels. She does an elaborate twirl, and when you give the appropriate wolf whistle, she blushes.

"Think Benny'll like it?"

"Only if he's not blind."

She beams. "Let's go!"

And the party is just like any and every other party you've been to, only with more beer and more people you don't know. Jo leads you straight to the kitchen upon arrival, and goes about making up some new cocktails she's invented.

"You're my guineapig," she says, handing you something purple and fizzy. You hold it up in front of you.

"Is this supposed to fizz?"

"Yes, now drink it."

You drink it, and it's actually pretty good. A little too Vodka and not enough whiskey for your liking, but not bad. Three more surprisingly delicious cocktails from Jo, and you move to the beer. Jo glares at you, but there's a crowd of girls lining up, all of whom are more than willing to take your place.

Benny's loft is huge - a large living room, with four bedrooms, two bathrooms, and the kitchen all going out different doors - and you wander around aimlessly for a while, searching for someone you might know, unexpectedly eager for a little company. In the end, you're about to head back into the kitchen to drink with Jo when some guy comes and talks to you.

"Listen," he says, all blond and sophisticated, "you don't happen to know where I can get one of those fizzy purple drinks, do you? Everyone's raving about them and, I admit, I'll give anything a go once."

You grin, immediately taken with the accent. "Jo's making them in the kitchen, man, but I'll warn you, there's a queue."

He shakes his head. "There always is. I told Cassie we needed to head for the kitchen as soon as we arrived, but mingling was apparently more important."

"Always the way, isn't it?"

"And now I've spent the last half hour having delicious-looking cocktails waved in front of me and haven't been able to try a single one."

For a second you actually feel bad for the guy, especially having switched to beer the first chance you got. "Well, if you get a choice, I suggest the orange one. I'm trying to convince Jo to call it the Sultry Summer Snare, but mostly just because she really hates the word _sultry_."

" _Sultry_ ," he repeats. "I can think of worse words, but instead of getting into them, I'm going to go order a Sultry Summer Snare … want to come watch?"

You laugh. "Hell, yeah."

You push your way through the crowd and lead him to the kitchen. There's a couple making out right in the way, so you give them a little shove and finally get through the doorway. It's quieter in there, and the look Jo gives you isn't the pleasingly drunk one you had expected, but rather something between terrified and furious.

And then the guy from behind you speaks.

"Cassie, there you are."

And there Cas is, behind you and to your left, wearing jeans and a black shirt, and it all hits you so quickly that you feel sick to your stomach. You stare at Cas - holding the green cocktail that Jo had described as being absolutely disgusting and the kind of drink she would only ever serve to her enemies - and he's stares back, looking exactly how you feel, and all the noise from the party turns into an irritating buzz that makes your head begin to pound.

The blood rushes from his face as his eyes widen and lips part, and you stare and stare and wait for him to do or say something, _anything_. And, all the while, there's this tearing, shattering, broken feeling in your chest that you want to ignore so much, but trying to ignore it just makes it hurt even more.

"Dean," he finally says, and right away you flash back to when he said your name the night before, as he rode you in the back seat of your car.

Balthazar - _and how the fuck did you not get that earlier?_ \- steps closer to Cas. "You two know each other?"

Cas nods and looks into his drink, not meeting anyone's gaze. "Yes, Dean and I shared art class together."

"How lovely," Balthazar says, and you can't tell if he's being genuine or not, but he has a hand on Cas' arm and you can't stop staring at it.

Cas is staring at you. Even with your gaze firmly stuck on his boyfriend's hand, you can feel Cas' stare on you, but you won't meet his gaze, can't meet his gaze, because you can't look away from someone else touching him. And Jesus Christ, this is so much worse than you thought it would be.

Because not only are they touching, but they're out together, on a date. And even if they haven't been sharing a room for a while now, they're still a couple who do couple-y things, and you're not sure how that makes you feel, but you know you don't like it, know that you're jealous, know that none of this is fair.

"Well! This whole bartending business has been great, I should do it more often," Jo says, coming around the counter to grab your hand. You tear your eyes away from Cas' arm and look at her. "But right now we have to go. Bye!"

"But I was hoping for a Sultry Summer Snare," Balthazar says, and you want to punch him in the face for making Jo scowl the way she does. But then you almost feel guilty for that, because you have been fucking his boyfriend after all.

You look at said boyfriend, and he's just staring at you, no emotion in his eyes, and it's like you're nothing. Like you don't matter at all, and so long as you keep your damn mouth shut, he'll just go on pretending that nothing ever happened between the two of you. So you stare back, and you even want to hit him a little bit - maybe even let slip to Balthazar just how well you know Cas - but instead you tear your gaze away.

"Sorry." Jo gives Balthazar her best fake smile. "All out."

She leads you by the hand, out of the kitchen, through the living room, and into a bedroom - Benny's you assume - and all the while you feel like a teenage girl who just caught her first boyfriend cheating on her at the school dance; angry, confused, fucking sad.

"How drunk are you?" she asks, closing and locking the door behind her.

"Not nearly enough."

"Well, considering I'm pretty sure that you would have knocked him out had you been drunk, that might be a good thing."

You frown. "Are you talking about him or Cas." Because you can't quite bring yourself to say his name.

She shrugs. "I'm honestly not sure. Look, I know you guys had a quick thing, made out that one time, so I'm sorry this happened. I honestly didn't know they'd be here. I guess one of them is friends with one of Benny's flatmates?"

You stare at Jo and nod slowly, unsure if it's relief or disappointment flowing through you at what she doesn't know. You can't imagine she'd be thrilled with you for sleeping around with a guy who's in a relationship, but the urge to tell her is strong. The urge to come clean, quit hiding this huge secret that means more than it should. And, even more than that, is the urge to make Cas come clean.

You swallow hard, unsure what to do now. What you _want_ to do is leave; go home, drink some beers and eat some day-old pizza; get a whole lot drunk and forget this night ever happened.

But you can't do that because leaving now would show to Jo, Cas, possibly even Balthazar, just how fucked up by this situation you are. Jo doesn't know the half of it - doesn't have a clue how hard even breathing currently is - and you'd really like to keep it that way. And Cas … he can't know. He just can't know how invested in this you are, when he's clearly not at all invested.

"Do you wanna go?"

You look at Jo and shake your head. "Na, I'm cool."

"You sure?"

"Definitely. Just don't give that douche anything but your green cocktails."

She smiles but looks sceptical. "Okay, if you're sure …"

Jo tells a stupid joke as you head back into the living room, and you know she's doing it on purpose, doing it so anyone who might be looking for you will see you laughing at her and her stupidness. And, goddamn, you freaking love her for it.

You follow her into the kitchen and sip at every cocktail she gives you. You want to get drunk on them, really fucking wasted, but you know better. One too many drinks and you'll be making a real mess of things, and if there's a chance that you might one day see Cas again even though art class is finished, you're not willing to screw that up by punching out his boyfriend.

And you don't know what's worse - that you still feel a little bad for wanting to punch a guy whose back you've been going behind, or that you're pathetic enough to still want to see Cas.

You're halfway through your Peach Squirt - Jo's name of choice, not yours - when a girl walks into the kitchen and sits next to you. And, yeah, you check her out because you're you and it's what you do, and she's hot. Just a glance isn't enough, so you give her a once over and smirk when she meets your gaze.

"How's it going?"

She eyes you up for a moment before smiling. And then it's all go - flirting and touching and drinking - and Jo, though she looks concerned about you, is egging you on by supplying the drinks. But then Benny arrives and Jo leaves and Cassie - you grimace when she tells you her name, but it's easy enough to look past when she smiles the way she does - asks if you want to go sit in the living room.

She's a nice girl. So nice that you've almost forgotten that in the living room is Cas and his boyfriend. It hits you quickly, but you're more prepared for it than you were to begin with - and much drunker - so you say yes, and when you get to the living room, you refuse to even glance around for Cas. You sit on one of the many sofas with Cassie, and let her rest her hand on your thigh.

But you're drunk and you pissed off and you miss Cas, so it doesn't take your gaze long to wander away from Cassie, and you find him right away - sitting reasonably close by, in the bay window seat, with Balthazar. He's already looking at you when you catch his gaze, and you want to look away, to pay attention to the girl next to you, but all you can do is sit and watch Cas as Balthazar leans close to whisper in his ear.

Cas looks away first, while his boyfriend's lips are still grazing his ear, and you do the same not a second later, and you're pretty sure it's time to go - leave the party and Cas and Cassie, and just go home, away from all the bullshit.

But then Cassie's soft hand is on your cheek, turning your face back towards hers, and she kisses you, and of course you kiss back because she's sweet and beautiful and it's better than watching Cas and his boyfriend.

She quickly deepens the kiss, and it's nice, but your mind is solely on Cas and whether or not he's watching, whether or not he's going through as much anguish watching you with Cassie as you were seeing him with Balthazar. Or maybe he's kissing Balthazar, just so you have to see it when you stop kissing Cassie, or maybe he's been doing it since the moment you looked away from him … and that thought alone is enough to make you pull away.

She smiles softly and has a drink, but you immediately look to Cas. He's watching you, just like you had maybe hoped he would be, and though you're tempted to smirk or flip him off behind Cassie's back, he looks so forlorn, so miserable, that you're flooded with guilt.

You swallow back the sick taste in your mouth and smile at Cassie. "Uh, bathroom break."

You need a minute or five, just to sort yourself out, figure out what the fuck you're doing, because this isn't you. You don't try to hurt people by kissing other people, you don't use someone in hopes of hurting someone else's feelings, and you don't fucking pine. You deal and you let it go and you fucking move on.

There's a quiet knock at the door, and you sigh. "Just a second."

"Dean, it's me. Let me in."

And no, you don't want to let him in, because you've just had some chick's tongue in your mouth and he's here with his boyfriend and you don't really like the person you've become since meeting him.

You open the door to let him in.

"That was an interesting display," he says, closing the door behind him.

"Whatever, man."

He sighs. "Dean, I know seeing me with Balthazar tonight was difficult, but -"

" _Difficult_?" You step closer, as close as you can bear to be without touching him. "Monday mornings are difficult, Cas. Beating Dad at chess is difficult. Getting cake when you ask for pie is difficult. Seeing you with him? That's fucking torture!"

"Dean, please try to understand -"

"Understand what? That you pity him too much to leave him?"

He glares. "Now you're just being rude."

"Yeah, maybe. Doesn't matter, though, does it? Not like we're ever going to see each other again."

"Not going …" He looks at you, confused. "What do you mean?"

You shrug. "Class is finished, Cas."

"That doesn't mean we can't still see each other!"

"Oh yeah?" You scoff, try to ignore how blue and pleading his eyes are. "What are you going to tell him, huh? No more convenient excuse in the form of a night class."

"I'll think of something, okay? I don't want to stop seeing you." He crosses his arms over his chest. "Do you want to stop seeing me?"

And there's this tiny part of you that knows you should say yes, that knows you should get out now, while you still can. Before it's too late has been and gone, because you obviously have it bad for Cas, but you still know that it'll hurt less now than it will later. Awful now versus excruciating later is something you can deal with.

But all you say is, "I want to stop seeing you with him."

He nods. "This … being out together, it's not like us. It doesn't happen very often these days. And it's not like I knew you were going to be here."

"Why _are_ you out with him, Cas? If it's so unlike you, then why the fuck are you out on a freaking date with him?"

"I … Balthazar wanted to come to the party, and I -"

"Couldn't say no?"

"Well, yes. I told you, he recently lost someone important to him and is going through a rough time. I thought a party might put a smile on his face."

"Yeah, well." You stare at the ground and force yourself not to kick everything in reach. "Makes me wonder what else he asks that you can't say no to."

"Dean."

And that's all he says, just your name. So you look at him, desperate for him to tell you you're wrong, to tell you that he's no longer sleeping with his boyfriend, because now that you think about it, perhaps Cas has been lying all this time, and you feel sick and dirty and you're about ready to beg -

He sighs. "Before me, Balthazar was with a man for a very long time. They were deeply in love, but … Raphael was a very religious man, a very religious _family_ man; he had a wife and kids, but spent years in a secret relationship with Balthazar."

You shake your head. "Why are you telling me this, Cas?"

"Because their relationship fell apart the same time his family found out about the affair … this man lost everything in that one moment."

"You mean his family …"

Cas nods. "They renounced him, yes. None of them ever spoke to him again."

You can't help but think of how lucky you are to have a supportive family. Your parents found out you liked both guys and girls when you were fifteen and they caught a guy from your English class going down on you in the backseat of the Impala.

It was rough, but over with quickly. Not only did you tick coming out to your parents off the list, but also most embarrassing moment of you life. There had been a conversation, one you prefer not to think about, followed by two rules; be safe, and, whether it be with a boy or girl, don't do this anywhere Sam might catch you.

The rules were fair, and what Cas is telling you just makes you even more grateful for your parents, but then you begin to think about your mom and the constant ache in your chest gets heavier so you speak up.

"Why are you telling me this?" you ask again.

"Because Balthazar and I got together about a year after his relationship with Raphael ended, and then, five months ago, Raphael killed himself. He had no family, no friends, and the love of his life had moved on to someone else." Cas sighs and runs a hand through his hair. "Balthazar and I … our relationship has been falling apart since then, and - and we haven't been sexually physical since then."

There's something akin to relief flowing through you, but it's just not enough. "I see."

"He never stopped being completely in love with Raphael, and his death hit him hard. Dean, he needs me, and I am still his friend. And I - I wanted you to know that, and I wanted you to understand better why I'm still with Balthazar."

You get it, you do. But your mom has cancer and she might not live and you don't know how to deal with any of the shit going on in your life right now. And, petty as it might be, your problems feel bigger than Balthazar's and you want Cas to put them and you first for once.

So you sigh, and decide it's time to get the fuck out of there. "Forget it, man. It doesn't matter."

"Of course it matters."

"No, Cas, it doesn't. You don't owe me any explanations, okay? He's your boyfriend, not me. You don't owe me anything, and, right now, there's not a whole lot I even want from you." And you voice is so bitter, so weary, and it's all such a fucking lie.

Cas opens his mouth to say something else, but his phone beeps. He frowns and pulls it out of his pocket, and you know by the look on his face when he reads it that the text is from Balthazar.

"Go," you say. He stares at you. "You've been in here a while, right? He's wondering where you are?"

He nods. "Yes."

"Then you should really get back out there."

"Yes, I suppose so." He steps closer, and his face falls when you step back. "Dean, I need you to know that I would have much preferred to have come here with you, as your date."

You shrug. "If you say so, Cas."

"I do say so."

"Well then, I guess it must be true, huh?" And you're all sarcasm, anger, resigned.

He's silent, and you know he's frustrated with you, annoyed that you won't just believe him when he says things like that, but how can you? Really?

"I'll call you," he says, voice firm.

"Yeah, okay."

He frowns and his jaw clenches and he wants to do something to prove himself to you - you can see it in his face, in his eyes, in the anxious look he's giving you.

His phone beeps again.

"If you don't leave now he'll eventually come looking for you." The silent _'and do you really want him finding you with me?'_ is obvious, but you don't mention it and Cas ignores it. He nods at you once and then leaves.

You follow suit a few minutes later, and leave the party without saying goodbye to Jo, without giving Cassie another thought, and without glancing over to where Cas had been sitting with Balthazar.

**Fact: Nothing good happens after 2am.**

It's a little after 1am when you get home, and instead of showering and going straight to bed, you drink and you pace and you fume, because you're so angry - so fucking angry at Cas and at yourself and at how your life is currently going. And all you can picture, all you can see every time your eyes close for just a second, is Balthazar's hand on Cas' arm, Balthazar whispering sweet nothings into Cas' ear, Cas leaving you alone in that bathroom to go and be with Balthazar.

And angry just doesn't cover it, because you're furious and resentful and disappointed, and you never wanted to be that guy - the one who falls for someone quicker than they should, the one who gets hurt - but a part of you wonders if maybe you are that guy.

But then you look at the bottle of whiskey in your hand and put it on that - put it all on that, because you _aren't_ that guy; you don't fall for people and you don't get hurt. You have a little fun with whoever's willing and leave it at that, and if your entire body happens to ache in a blunt, throbbing kind of way whenever you think about Cas - drunk or not - well that just doesn't matter.

You continue to pace, though. You continue to pace and drink and fume because it beats the alternative of sitting on the couch and letting fall the bitter tears that have built up since the day Mom told you about the cancer.

When there's a knock at your door you know it's Cas. You put your phone on silent on your way home so you wouldn't have to deal with Jo's calls and questions, but when you pull it out to check the time you see that it's 2:24am and you have three missed calls from Cas. You're glad you missed the calls, and for a moment you even consider ignoring his knocking.

But you just can't. You want to see him too much.

This time, when you open the door to let him in, he kisses you and touches you and does everything and everything it takes to get a response out of you. And you let it happen; let him kiss and touch, let your body respond the way it wants to, let him do his best to prove to you with his actions that he meant everything he said that night.

Because that's what he's doing; when he splays his hands across your hips and suckles at your neck he's showing you that he doesn't want to stop seeing you; when he mouths his way down your bare chest and undoes your belt he's showing you that he wanted to be your date to the party; and when he takes you between his lips, sucks you down with his hot, wet mouth, he's showing you that it does matter. That you matter.

It all feels good, and the orgasm is awesome - Cas is good at everything he does, after all - and even the way he snuggles into your side afterwards is nice. But then he gets up to leave; pulls on his clothes and leaves you lying cold and naked on the couch, and you're stupid and dumb and a complete idiot, because as he's doing up his shirt you say the one thing you've always stopped yourself from saying before …

"Stay."

He stop buttoning to look at you. "I can't."

You nod and don't argue with him on it and pretend to understand, and when he closes the door behind him, you know you don't believe anything he was trying to tell or show you.

**Fact: Jo Harvelle is a fucking pro at guilt trips.**

From that night on your life is a blur of drinking with Sam, sex with Cas, and artificially happy family dinners.

You catch Mom being sick a few more times, get time off from work to go to treatments with her, and talk her out of reading all seven Harry Potter books after Sam talks her into it. She's got more time on her hands now that she's working less, so you convince her to sit and watch every _Star Wars_ movie instead.

You don't see Cas as often as you'd like, and when you do it's tense and hurried and you almost don't want to do it anymore. You want Cas - that conclusion has been easy to come to - but it's what you want from him that bothers you, because what you want is everything Balthazar has; the relationship, the dates, the freewill to touch when and where you please.

But the more time you spend watching him sneak out of your apartment - or, even worse, waking up to find him gone - the more obvious it becomes that it's just not going to happen, and the more you begin to feel like a toy, like all you're good for is sex. You want more from Cas - more than secret texts and midnight booty calls and lunchtime quickies - and when he's with you he tells you how much he's missed you, how much he wants you, how much he wishes he could stay. But he always leaves.

And it's messing with your goddamned head and life. You're making stupid mistakes at work, you're snapping at Sam over silly things, and you even dented the Impala at the grocery store yesterday while thinking about Cas and whether or not you would see him that night.

Which, by the way, you didn't.

It takes two weeks - two weeks of drinking yourself stupid, fucking Cas stupid, and simply being stupid - for it to come to an end. Your mom turns up, looking tired and weak and tentative, and, yeah, you're a little drunk when you open the door for her, but it's a Saturday afternoon and you don't have anywhere you need to be.

She smiles. "I made you a pie!"

You smile back but don't let her inside. "Apple?"

She nods and hands it to you. "Can I come in?"

"Uh …" You glance behind you, at the beer cans littering the coffee table, the take-out containers dirtying the floor, and sex-stained couch. Christ, you are such a fucking mess. "Now's not a good time."

"Oh, okay." She looks down at her hands and you're shocked to see how thin her hair has gotten. It makes you feel a little sick and disgusted, but you don't mention it.

"But I'll see you tomorrow, right?"

"Yes, of course. I'm making dinner instead of breakfast, so come around five o'clock."

"Great." Plenty of time to get over the hangover you plan on inflicting upon yourself.

She smiles but it's strained, and you know she's either worried about you or hurt that you're being evasive. "I'll see you tomorrow, sweetheart."

"Bye, Mom."

And that smile effectively makes you feel guilty. Not guilty enough to call her back and invite her in, but guilty enough to gather up the take-out containers and stick them on the kitchen counter. After that you have a couple of beers before collecting all the empties and leaving them next to the take-out containers.

You're sitting on the couch, a real good buzz going, when there's a knock at the door, and you cringe. You hope it's Sam, ready and willing to spend the night getting wasted with you, but you're pretty sure it's Dad and he's here to yell at you for how you treated Mom.

It's Jo, but you're positive you're going to get the same treatment from her.

"You're a real shit, Dean Winchester," she says, barging in without invitation.

"Isn't this, I dunno, the eighth conversation you've started that way?"

She whirls on you. "Your mama called me today. She's worried sick about you!"

"Well clearly I'm fine." And pissed. First Mom went to see Cas at work when she had no right to, and now she's calling Jo to talk about you behind your back. Bullshit.

"Are you kidding me? Look at yourself, Dean, you're a fucking mess."

"You don't know shit, Jo."

She nods. "I don't know what the hell is going on with you, but I know you're drinking far too much. You're at the Roadhouse almost every damn night these days, and your car is practically living in our parking lot because you get too wasted to drive home!"

"Not your problem." And, just to spite her, you turn away and go back to your beer.

"It became my problem when your mama called me."

"Which is something she never should've done."

Jo's silent for a long while, but you know you haven't won. She still looks determined and fierce, so you stand and wait for whatever it is she has to say.

"I don't know what's going on with you, Dean. I know your mama's sick, and I can't even begin to imagine how horrible that is, but the Dean I know and love keeps his shit together so he can keep his family together. He stays strong while everyone else falls apart, then breaks down once he knows everyone else is okay."

You stare at her and say nothing, because she's right and you hate yourself for it. But you won't let her see that, so you lift your chin and wait her out.

"Is there something else going on?"

Your mind flashes to Cas. "No."

She glares. "Sam's started drinking. Did you know that?"

You do know that. You and Sam have had a lot of really fun nights lately, playing stupid drinking games, competing at _SingStar Queen_ , even sharing a few too many details about sex lives.

"He comes into the Roadhouse every couple of nights and we end up driving him home so he doesn't stumble his way back."

You grin. "He's a big boy, Jo, he can handle himself. In fact - and I'm sure you know this since you serve him alcohol - he's legally an adult, and can do what he wants."

"He passed out in the men's bathroom last night, Dean, in his own puke. You need to talk to him."

"Like I said, he's an adult. It's not up to me to tell him what he can and can't do."

She nods, and her disappointment in you is blatant. "No, but it is up to you to set a better example. You're his older brother, Dean, and the only reason he's drinking himself into a coma every night is because that's what you've taught him to do."

The guilt trip is mean and effective, causing blame and remorse to flood through you, and you feel sick to your stomach at what you're doing to Sam. Sure, you deserve to fall apart just as much as everyone else, but you can't take Sam down with you. You just can't. You swallow heavily, but Jo keeps going.

"Your mama doesn't need the worry right now, Dean. She doesn't need to be worrying her pretty little head about you and Sam when she's as sick as she is, and I think you know that."

You nod, and your voice is hoarse. "Yeah. Yeah, I do."

Jo sighs. "Like I said, I don't know what else is going on with you, but your mama needs you - you're whole family needs you. Jesus, I need you. So, please … pull your shit together and be strong. If not for us, then at least for yourself."

"Myself?"

"You can't tell me you're happy living like this?"

She's got a point, and the words come out before you can stop them. "I've been fooling around with Cas."

" _What_?"

Your hands shake as you run them through your hair, and now that you've started talking, you find you can't stop.

"It stared about a month ago, and … I dunno, Jo, it just happened! And it's fucked up and messy and wrong, but I can't stop. He has a boyfriend, but I just can't stop. I don't even want to stop, and I know I should, because all this sneaking around, all this _cheating_ , it's turning me into someone I'm not, and it's fucking with my head." You breathe in a shaky breath. "But I can't stop, Jo."

Jo stares at you in shock, and you stare back, feeling nothing but ruined.

"Jesus Christ, Dean. Are you in love with him?"

"What? No." Drunk or sober, you can't tell if you're lying.

"I … shit, Dean, I don't know what to say."

You nod. "You're mad."

"Well, yeah, but not at you. Tell me, does Cas know about your mom?"

You think back to the night you told him, the way he let you do as you pleased, the way he kissed you after you told him, the way he touched you and how he felt inside you.

"Yeah, he knows."

"Unbelievable. Un-fucking-believable."

"Jo -"

"No," she snaps, and you know there's no point in arguing with her. "You need support, Dean. Here I am asking you to be strong, but you need family and friends and people who give a damn, too. And Cas … that little shit, he should know better. He knows about your mom and he's still leading you on? I'm gonna kick his ass."

"He's not leading me on. I know exactly where I stand."

"Oh yeah? And do you like where you stand? Because from where I'm standing it looks like you're falling apart."

She's got a point. You grit your teeth and blink rapidly, and you thank everything you're not sure you believe in that the tears - those same bitter tears that have been threatening for weeks - don't fall until she's gone.

**Fact: Things might be looking up.**

You wake up feeling like shit. Utter shit; gritty eyes, pounding head, blocked nose … and all from crying into your pillow like a teenage girl. Jo's words repeat in your head like a mantra - _Sam's started drinking, I need you, you're falling apart_ \- and you know she's right about everything. You have as much right as everyone else to fall apart, but you know damn well that there are classier ways to go about it.

The problem is, you've become the person at Benny's party, the person who locked himself inside the bathroom so he could come to terms with the crap he was pulling, the person you don't really like. And it's no one's fault but your own, because no one forced you into this mess with Cas, but you blame him and the affair and the way he treats you for turning you into a douche who treats his mama like crap, who encourages his little brother to drink, and who lets himself be used.

You go to dinner that night with a clear and sober head. You take Mom flowers, turn down the beer Dad offers you, and tease Sammy about his beer gut until he changes into old shorts and a T-shirt and goes for a run. And goddamn you feel good about yourself. The only drug in your system is Coca Cola, you've had had a home-cooked meal of vegies and meat, and, when Sam gets up to change, your mom is smiling like you haven't seen her do in weeks.

You're basically awesome.

But your awesomeness gets to you eventually, and when you stop in at the Roadhouse after dinner, you order a beer. Jo gives a totally unladylike snort and stares at you incredulously. You roll your eyes.

"C'mon. It's my first one all day. I swear."

She glares but concedes. "You're lucking I know how to tell if you're lying."

"Am I? I pretty sure you knowing that I'm lying has gotten me into more trouble than anything else."

"Yeah." She grins. "Remember when you lied about hooking up with Danny Harris in tenth grade?"

"What can I say? The guy was hot."

"He was also my boyfriend!" She punches you in the shoulder, but you know you're good, you know you and Jo are good.

"How's it going with Benny?"

She shrugs. "Good."

"Just good?"

"Well … I don't want to brag when your love life is kind of crappy, but it's going really well. Like, really well."

You acknowledge her mention of yesterday by throwing her own words back in her face. "Jesus Christ, Jo. Are you in love with him?"

She smirks and flips you off, and you feel better than you have in weeks.

But then you get home and Cas is there waiting for you, and it's nice to see him, to know that he clearly wants to see you, but you feel like every bit of progress you made that day evaporates the moment you set sights on him, and that can't be good. It can't be good to feel that way about the person you're sleeping with, the person you want to be with, the person you have very real feelings for …

And it makes you wonder just how much you really want to be with him if you feel like that. It's not like it used to be, with dirty flirting and eager touches and a pure desperation to simply be near one another. Now it's hard and it's confusing and it's heartbreaking.

"Hey, Cas."

He looks up, and you're totally lost, because the smile he gives you makes everything worth it.

"Hello, Dean. I'm sorry for just turning up like this, but I had to get out of the house."

"Yeah, no problem." You unlock the door and he follows you inside. "Everything okay?"

"Yes, it's just … Balthazar. He's having a bad day, and when he has a bad day, he likes to pick fights."

You tense. "Right."

"So I thought it would be best to get out of the house and stop arguing with him for a while, and I thought I'd come here and maybe we could watch a movie."

You pause in sitting your keys and phone on the counter and turn to him. "You wanna watch a movie?"

"Would that be okay?"

And you don't know how to answer that, because the fact that he's there for something other than sex is really fucking peachy. But the fact that he's there for something other than sex - something date-like - is confusing and mean. You try to remind yourself that he's using you, leading you on, but he smiles again, and you can't help yourself.

You take off your shoes and coat, watch Cas do the same, then tell him to sit on the couch and wait.

"You're in for a treat," you tell him, putting _Die Hard_ into the DVD player. "I hope you're ready for the best action movie of all time."

He smiles, and when you sit next to him he snuggles into your side and pulls the blanket from the end of the couch over you both. "I'm ready."

But you're not sure you are. You sit, and you watch Bruce Willis freak out on the plane, watch him meet his awesome limo driver, watch him fist his toes into the carpet, and your heart pounds and your hands sweat and your whole mouth is dry. Because this is what you want - movie nights with Cas, cuddling on the couch with Cas, introducing classic movies to Cas - and now that you've got it, it makes you sick to think about giving it up.

**Fact: There's nothing you can do.**

You spend Thursday night with your Mom. Dad has to work late, and Sam has decided to stop spending this time slacking off, and has signed up for a creative writing night class. And it's cool. You eat ice cream and pie for dinner, you leave the dishes for Dad and Sam, and you watch a marathon of _The Simpsons_.

All in all, it's a good night. One of the better nights of the week, what with the strained moments with Cas, and the constant need you have for him to stick around.

"I always thought you boys were crazy for laughing so hard at this when you were younger," Mom says, after watching Homer explain what a Muppet is, "but now I get it and it's so stupid."

You grin. "That's why it's funny."

"So much wasted time," she says, running a hand through her hair, "scolding you lot when I could have …"

"Could've what?" you ask when she doesn't continue, and when she still says nothing you turn from the TV to look at her.

She's staring at her hand, at the long, blonde strands of hair that are caught in her fingers.

"Mom."

She rakes her other hand through her hair, and it comes out looking just like the other one, and you want to say something, you really do, but your mind is a blank and you don't know what to do. So you sit and you watch as she threads hand after hand through her hair, pulling clumps out each time. She doesn't stop until there's a pile of hair in her lap, and even then it's with a broken cry.

"Maybe I should call Dad," you finally say, feeling useless and hollow and sick, but she ignores you. She gets up from the couch and leaves the living room, and you follow quickly, because after what just happened there's no way you're leaving her alone.

You follow her into the bathroom, watch in silence as she grabs out Dad's hair clippers, but don't get your shit together until she plugs them in. And you're too late; she shaves a stripe down the middle of her head just as you reach her, and it's awful and crushing and terrifying to see her do this to herself, but you can't look away.

So you stand behind her, waiting for her to finish, ready and willing to tell her how good she looks, how freaking brave she is. But when she finishes, her head is covered in choppy bits of stubbly hair and her shoulders slump and you're pretty sure that nothing you say will make her feel better.

"Mom?"

She begins to cry, and you're sure she's cried about the cancer before, but this is the first time you've seen her do it and it hurts. The clippers are on the counter and her hands are on the ledge, and when she falls to her knees, you go with her, remembering the day she told you about the cancer, the way her voice shook when she talked about losing her hair, and you pull her close, press your face against her bristly head, and let her cry.

And as she cries against you, you're pretty sure this is the hardest thing you're ever going to do, because your mom is strong and fierce and independent, and you've never seen her like this before - you've never seen her shake and sob and wail, and it breaks your fucking heart.

**Fact: You need.**

You're shaking when you get home. Shaking and cursing everything and everyone and trying not to cry - because you did enough of that on the drive home. You're sober, and you'd love a fucking drink, but you really can't fall apart, not now, not after sitting on the bathroom floor for forty minutes while your mom cried into your shirt.

Then Dad got home and sent you home and swore he'd call in the morning, and you still feel sick at how eagerly you had let him take over, at how quickly you had passed Mom over and left the house. Because she needed you, but you couldn't take it anymore. The first chance you got to leave, you left and didn't look back once.

And now you're pacing again, hands trembling and breath ragged, and you're waiting for Cas, because you had text him the second you got into your car. You text him, telling him, _demanding_ him, to be at your place in twenty minutes, and now you're freaking out so damn badly and you know he's the only thing - his touch, his voice, his presence - that's going to calm you down.

He finally arrives, knocking three quick knocks at the front door, and you hurry to let him in.

"I can't stay long," he says, walking past you and inside your apartment. "Balthazar's had an awful day and I really need to get back as soon as I can."

And that's it. That's just fucking it.

"No."

He looks at you and seems to do a double take, and you can't help but think that, had he bothered to even glance at you when he first arrived, he wouldn't be so shocked at what he's seeing now.

"What happened? You look terrible."

You huff out a derisive laugh. "Yeah, thanks."

"Dean, what happened?"

"My mom. We were just hanging out and … her hair - it was just everywhere man, and she completely freaked out and shaved her head, and …"

"And?"

_And_ you suddenly feel really stupid, because your mom has cancer so of course she was going to lose her hair eventually. But it's more than just losing hair, it's so much more …

You swallow back the lump in your throat. "And … do you really have to go?"

"What do you mean?" And he looks so honestly unsure that you explode.

"I mean I'm fucking sick of you taking off in the middle of the night, Cas! I'm sick of you leaving me to go home and be with _him_. For once I'd really like it if you stuck around, and I'd really like it if that once was now."

He blinks and seems surprised by your outburst. "Dean, I told you when I arrived that I can't be here long."

"Yeah, and I'm telling you now that want you to stay. My mom? She broke tonight, Cas. She completely broke down and it broke me, and I don't know how I'm supposed to put her back together if I can't even put myself back together."

He steps toward you. "Dean, it's not your job to fix everyone."

"That's not the fucking point!" You take a shuddering breath, and will away the traitorous tears that burn the backs of your eyes. "You keep telling me how much you want to be here, how much you want to be with me, how my mom can see how much you care for me even if I can't, so for once, would you just stay and be with me?"

"I - I can't. I'm sorry." And he does look genuinely sorry, but it's not enough. "Balthazar is a mess right now -"

"I'm a mess."

He frowns, looking conflicted. "He needs me."

"God damn it, Cas, _I_ need you. I _need_ you."

His face softens and he grabs your hand and squeezes, and you think _yes, finally_ , and your heart rate begins to slow and warms spreads through your chest, but it barely lasts two seconds before he's pulling away.

"I'm sorry."

You suck in a painful breath. "You're leaving."

"Yes. I have to."

"Yeah. Okay. Don't bother coming back then."

He stares at you for a long time, and you don't regret your words at all, because Cas did this to you - he screwed you and screwed with your head and screwed with your heart, and he must fucking know it because you haven't exactly been quiet about it. And you can't keep doing it; you can't keep feeling like shit because he goes home to another guy every night.

He tilts his head. "Are you asking me to choose?"

"Nope. I'm just sayin' that if you meant all the shit you tell me, then you wouldn't have to choose. If you meant it when you said you felt more for me than you did him, then it wouldn't even be a choice."

"Dean, I can't just leave him -"

"But you can leave me? Nice, Cas, that's awesome."

"It's not like that."

"It doesn't matter what it's like." Jo's words ring in your ears. "I can't keep doing this with you. It's fucking with my head, and I need … shit, I need to not be with someone who keeps leaving me."

"That - that almost sounds like an ultimatum."

You glare at him, willing yourself to hate him and his dismayed. "It's not an ultimatum, it's fact because -"

"Dean -"

"Because I can't fucking take it anymore, Cas. I just can't. I need more than what you're giving me - this half-assed relationship that's nothing but you coming around for sex and then leaving again - and if you can't give it … I dunno, just go, I guess."

"Just go," he repeats, voice dull and void of any emotion.

"Yes, Cas, just go. If you can't stay here with me, then I need you to get the fuck out of here. For good. Because I need out now, before I end up getting even more screwed over." _Hurt. You can't get more hurt._

He steps closer, pleads with you. "Dean, please, don't end things this way."

You run a hand through your hair. "I don't want to end things at all. This is your doing."

"If you could just understand -"

"No. I'm done understanding. You need to leave."

He flounders, looking as though he can't decide if he's lost or angry. "Don't do this, Dean. You _can't_ do this. Just think this through -"

"Get out." You wait and when he doesn't do anything, snap. "Get the fuck out of here, Cas. Fucking go!"

After a few tense moments, he nods and leaves. You stand right where he left you, waiting, hoping, wishing for him to knock at your door, to demand you let him inside, to come back.

He never does.

**Fact: It's not a crush.**

It's this aching, awful feeling. The deep, heavy kind of feeling that you've never felt before. The kind of feeling that hurts and feels good at the same time, that makes your skin sing and your heart drop, that turns your world upside down because he's there one minute and out of your life the next.

You don't know what it is, but you know it's there, and you know it's not going away.

The same way you know the Impala is black, the way you know Sammy needs a haircut, the way you know your family will fall apart if Mom doesn't survive what she's going through. And you know it's been getting stronger and stronger for a while, but you only come to terms with how intense it is when you wake up the morning after he left you to no missed calls or texts, and your heart literally aches with the knowledge that it's over, that he chose someone else.

You feel sick upon waking. You had a weird sleep, with your dreams consisting of Mom shaving her head, then switching to Cas _giving_ you head, and that last one should make you happy, but it just fills you with a queasy feeling of loss and longing, and your skin stops tingling and nothing feels good anymore.

You're tempted to call Jo, to ask if this is how she feels about Benny, but you can't bring yourself to do it because you're not quite that pathetic. You're pathetic enough to stay in bed far too late, call in sick to work, and then curl up on the couch and get lost in an episode of _Friday Night Lights_ that Jo must have TiVo'd, but you don't care enough to do anything about that.

Your phone rings when number seven is crying about his Dad dying, and you're so fucking glad for the distraction that it doesn't hit you for a moment that it might be Cas. It could be Cas, having realise what a mistake he made, begging for your forgiveness, telling you that he wants _you_ and will be there ASAP.

It hits you very quickly just how lame you're being. "Dick," you mutter to yourself before snatching up the phone and seeing Dad's name.

"Hey, Dad."

"You not at work today?"

Well. Hello to you, too. You sigh. "No, I'm not feeling that great."

He grunts. "Neither is your mother, but I'm not sure how to make her feel better."

"Uh, she shaved all her hair off last night; I don't think there's anything that could make her feel better."

"Yeah, I guess not." He's silent for a long moment, and you wait for him to say something else. When he finally does, his words shock you. "You did good last night, Dean-o. Your Mom had a bit of a moment, but you stayed strong for her."

"Yeah." Your voice is hoarse, and you vow to buy Jo some nice flowers for kicking your ass into gear. She'll probably kick your ass again for the flowers, so you change your mind and decide on chocolate and beer.

"Anyway." And Dad's voice sounds gruffer than usual. "Get some rest and we'll see you in a couple of days, okay?"

"Okay, Dad."

He hangs up and you stare at your phone, pull up Cas in your contacts. Your thumb hovers over the call icon and you want to call him, but you know you can't. If you call him - if he even answers - he'll end up in your bed again and going back home to his boyfriend again and you just can't deal with that anymore.

So you press delete. You get out of bed, shower, and head to work.

You're still pathetic enough that, instead of having a quick piece of toast for a late breakfast, you stop at McDonald's and gorge yourself sick, but you do feel better for it. You've got _Metallica_ blaring, a full stomach, and Dad's approval - life is somewhat good.

You keep busy at work, gets your hands filthy, take on any and every job that's going - even the ones you'd usually turn your nose up at - and stay busy. After work you go to Mom and Dad's and help Sam make dinner. Mom stays in bed the whole time, not wanting to see anyone, but you're kind of okay with that and don't say anything about it.

Once dinner is in the oven, you go outside and mow the laws.

"Dean?"

You look up at Sam as you empty the catcher. "Yeah?"

"It's almost dark."

"I know. Gotta get these jobs done, though."

"Yeah, okay. You want some help."

You grin. "Na, you're on dishes."

After dinner you help Sam with the dishes, you make up a quick lunch for your parents to eat the next day, and you sweep and mop the floor. Sam keeps looking at you like you're insane, but Dad nods his thanks and pats you on the back. When you get home, you're too damn tired to even think about calling Cas.

Because your mom needs you and Sam needs you and Jo needs you … so you stay strong. For them

**Fact: You** **'** **re not okay.**

Being strong doesn't last long, and you fall apart later that night. You left your parents feeling good - Sam was happily talking to Jess, Dad was proud of you, and Mom … well.

But all in all, you felt good. Even once you got home and munched on a piece of leftover pizza, you felt good. And you continued to feel good while putting away a few dishes, but then it hit you at once - Cas left you, Cas chose Balthazar, Cas _doesn_ _'_ _t want_ you - and it hurts more than anything. Your mom is sick, and that really fucking hurts, but this is different and terrible and - in a way - worse. It's heartbreaking and nauseating and gut wrenching.

There's this thick, solid feeling in your throat that won't go away, no matter what you eat or drink. It's just there, waiting for you to let it dissolve into the kind of bullshit emotion you refuse to give in to. Because it hurts, this feeling that's taking over your entire throat and neck, but it's due to Cas and you won't let him break you.

Except that you're already broken. You don't know when it happened, but your guess is the night before, after Mom shaved her head. That alone caused splints and fractures, the kind of cracks that needed to be put together, healed. But instead of doing that, instead of kissing you and holding you and fucking being what you needed, Cas broke you.

So you sit alone on your couch, broken and hurting, wishing for something - _anything_ \- to change; for your mom to be healthy, for Cas to come back, for Jess to arrive, because even just seeing Sam smile more often would help.

It wouldn't be enough, but it would help.

After a while, you're done. You've spent too long sitting on the couch, mind a blur of fuck Cas, fuck cancer, and fuck life, and it's dumb. You don't do this emo-sulking crap; you deal with whatever shit you're going through however the fuck you need to.

Even if that is by getting completely shit-faced, which is totally the plan once you realise what a dick you're being by sitting on your ass and feeling sorry for yourself.

You get a cab to the seediest bar in town, not giving a fuck who sees you there, and order the cheapest, nastiest whiskey they have. And it's one of those so-bad-it's-good drinks, the kind that will get you drunk quickly and horrifically, the kind that you'll still be able to taste two days from now when you're still recovering from the gnarly hangover it will cause.

And that's exactly what you want, because at least then you'll be too busy moaning about that to moan about Cas.

Some guy comes to sit next to you after a couple of hours drinking alone, and you give him your usual drunken smirk. He's hot enough, you suppose, and you know exactly why he's sitting next to you and staring at you the way he is, and you're not all that opposed to the idea; letting some guy fuck you until your mind goes black sounds kind of nice.

He talks you up, tells you how hot you are, and how he can't believe a guy like you would be alone at a place like this on a Friday night, and you just nod along and drink your drink. You don't know his name, you can't tell what colour his eyes are, and you don't give a shit about either. You want to get off, have a little fun, forget about Cas.

The warm hand on your thigh helps, and you spread your legs, eager for more yet feeling sick to your stomach, and you can't even blame that on the alcohol; what you're drinking probably tastes like the equivalent to lukewarm piss, and it's not strong enough to have you puking yet.

Nope. That's the guy next to you. The guy you plan on fucking, because the idea of letting him fuck you just isn't cool anymore. In fact, it really sucks, and the idea of having anyone inside you like that again is enough to make you push away your drink and ask for something else. Something just as nasty and cheap, but something a little less vomit-inducing.

And it's vodka, and that's just fucking perfect. The guy next to you downs a shot while you glare at the clear liquid in front of you, and then his lips are on your neck, kissing and slobbering all over you, and it flits through your mind that, if this was Cas, drunk and messy, you'd be hard as fuck at the idea of fooling around under the influence. But this guy - this guy whose hand is too damn close to your dick - just makes you feel like a fuck up.

You're not hard, you're not interested, and you're _not okay_.

You leave, shoving him away from you and not doing much better when he falls to the sticky floor. Everything spins when you stand, your stomach lurches, and shit, you're a whole lot drunker than you thought. You stumble to the door, wondering if there's someone you can call for a ride, but …

There just isn't.

There's no one. You can't call your parents, for obvious reasons. You can't call Sam, because he won't be able to stop from attempting a heart to heart about why you're so drunk. You can't call Jo, because she'll kick your ass into next week the moment she hears your slurred voice on the phone.

And you can't call Cas. You can't call Cas, ever again, for anything, and … shit. You frown at the realisation, that you're never going to talk to call him, talk to him, kiss him, touch him, be with him, _see_ him again, and all that cheap and nasty whiskey comes hurtling up your stomach and onto the street below.

You feel a little better once it's out - physically, at least - and you're coherent enough to call for a cab. Once home, you shower under steaming water, washing off the filth from the bar and the guy and the shitty fucking crap you're just not dealing with, and resolve to start dealing with it again. You did it once, and you did it well - you can do it again.

And then you climb into bed with a queasy stomach, dry mouth, and guilty conscience because you're supposed to be strong.

**Fact: Joanna Beth Harvelle is one of the best people you know.**

You wake up with a pounding head, a queasy stomach, and a wicked case of the dry horrors, but also a resolution. No more drinking yourself sick, no more moping alone, and no more falling apart. You're the strong one; you need to be strong.

You don't have work to keep you occupied, but you spend your day hung-over and doing every chore you can find in your parents house, including the dusting and gardening. You're physically exhausted when you get home, but you're full of the food you made the day before, and you've had enough coffee to cure any hangover, and your brain won't stop.

You stand in front of your kitchen counter, staring from your phone to the whiskey, knowing which is the safer option, but unsure if you can do it.

Eventually you pick up your phone, and after a few quick words, a muttered explanation of the night before, and a half-hour wait, Jo knocks at your front door, pizza, beer, and Scrabble in her hands.

"Scrabble? Really?" you ask, taking the hot pizza out of her hands.

"It's to keep your mind busy. The beer is to help you get a nice, happy, _small_ buzz going - and with my wonderful company there's no doubt of that happening - and I also brought a dictionary, so when I kick your ass you can't accuse me of cheating."

And kick your ass she does. Three games in and the pizza is gone, you haven't won once, and you've only had a couple of beers. Jo was right about getting a nice, happy buzz going.

Which, of course, is when Jo decides to bring up Cas.

"You broke it off, huh?"

"Yep."

"Good for you."

You glance up at her. "Uh, thanks?"

"I'm just sayin', being messed around like that isn't good for anyone. Especially you."

"You say that like I'm some kind of delicate flower."

"You are."

You raise an eyebrow and stare at Jo until she lets up. "Fine, fine, you're big and manly and no amount of butt sex is going to take that away from you."

"You always have to mention the butt sex, don't you?"

She shrugs. "You never give me details, so I have to throw it in there somewhere."

"You really want details on the things Cas did to my ass?"

"When you put it like that, not so much." She pauses, fidgets with her hands. "Speaking of, though …"

You frown when she trails off. "Of … things Cas did to my ass?"

"No, you dick. Of sex. Benny and I had sex last night."

You scrunch up your nose, because ew. "Uh, good for you?"

"Look, I know we generally keep the details out of our friendship, but something weird happened."

"Weird-weird? Or kinky-weird?"

"Weird-weird." She glares then grins. "Kinky-weird wouldn't be a problem -"

"Anyway!"

"Yes, anyway. We were fooling around, having sex, and it was our first time -"

"Really?"

She rolls her eyes. "Yes. Not everyone is a slut like you, Dean Winchester. So, we were having sex and it was awesome, but then … well, Benny came first, which is fine, but when he came … he said your name."

" _What_?" Your heart stops and your stomach drops, and Jo … she laughs.

"Oh, God!" She slaps her hand on the table, laughing so hard her eyes water. "You are too easy."

She keeps laughing, and you end up laughing with her because it's good to see her so happy, and it's good to not feel such a weight on your shoulders, and, yeah, it's pretty funny.

"You'll go to extreme lengths to shock me, won't you?"

She grins and wipes her eyes. "That wasn't supposed to shock you, it was supposed to make you laugh."

You shake your head and hide a smile; she's a damn good friend, Jo Harvelle. A couple of hours and a couple of beers later, you lounge with her on the couch and watch old reruns of _Cheers_. You don't want to say anything, but the words come out anyway.

"Hey, Jo?"

"Hmm?"

"Do you love Benny?"

"Maybe." And you know that's Jo for yes. She sighs and rests her head on your shoulder. "Do you love Cas?"

You match her sigh with one of your own. "Maybe."

**Fact: There's nothing good about 4am phone calls.**

When your phone rings at 4am Monday morning, you immediately, pathetically think Cas. Your eyes snap open and a warmth spreads through your body, but when you pick up the phone and see Sam's name on the screen everything goes cold and your stomach rolls.

"Sam? What's going on?"

"Dean! Jesus, Dean, Mom just got taken away in the ambulance, and Dad went with her, and I was gonna come get you, but I can't get his fucking truck to start -"

You're out of bed in an instant, hand against the wall to keep yourself from falling flat onto your face. "Wait, what? She's going to hospital?"

"She's been sick all night," he says, and you know he's pacing. "Dad finally called the hospital because she looked about ready to pass out and she hasn't been able to really keep a thing down in days, only we didn't know it because she won't leave the bedroom … they sent an ambulance, Dean; it had its sirens going and everything."

"Shit."

"Dad's truck. It's the only thing I've got keys to and it won't start. Dean, what am I -"

"Sammy, calm down." You rub a hand over your face, trying desperately to stay calm. "I'll be there in ten minutes."

**Fact: Hospitals suck.**

You got to Sam in seven minutes, and now, three hours later, you're sitting in a waiting room, wishing at least one of the goddamn doctors who walked past would stop and give you news. Your head is pounding, your stomach is making all kinds of unhappy noises, and there's not enough shitty coffee in the world.

But, in comparison, being tired and hungry and worried sick just doesn't matter. Everything you pulled Friday night just doesn't matter, because perspective.

"I can't believe they wouldn't let you in with her. You're her husband!" Sam says to Dad for the fourth time, ignoring the glare from the nurses station.

"I know, Sam, but getting her healthy is their main concern. Not keeping me happy."

"Yeah, well, it's bullshit."

Dad glares for a moment, but then sighs. "Yeah, I know, kiddo."

Sam still looks pissed so you quickly change the subject. "What did Bobby and Ellen say?"

"Bobby said to take whatever time you need, and Ellen said she and Jo would be here as soon as possible." He pauses to run a hand through his hair. "Honestly? I wasn't paying a whole lot of attention, but she mentioned something about stopping for breakfast on the way."

Your stomach grumbles at the exact same time as Sam's, and though yours feels a little ill at the idea of food, it seems to break the tension. You lean back in your seat and pull out your phone, wishing you could call Cas - wishing you could call him and he'd come and be there for you. You don't even care how _Hallmark_ that is, you just want him with you, and you want him to want to be with you.

Ellen and Jo arrive only minutes later, hot food and good coffee in tow, both of which you immediately inhale and burn your mouth on, but it's so good. The food settles your stomach, and the coffee - strong and black, just how you like it - makes everything a little clearer.

"Any news?" Ellen asks. Jo sits next to you and sips at her own fancy _Starbucks_ coffee.

"None yet," Dad says around a mouthful of a McMuffin. "When I called they said it sounded like dehydration, but with the - the cancer, we don't know if there's more to it, if maybe she's caught something now that her immune system is so low."

Ellen nods, her mouth set in a firm line, and doesn't say anything else. No one says anything else for what feels like hours, and when you glance at the clock again, you realise it's less than one. You sigh, slouch in your seat, and wonder how it is that an emergency room can keep people waiting like this.

Jo rests her head on your shoulder, and if you can't have Cas, then you're damn grateful for Jo's presence. You don't have to say a damn thing to this girl and she knows exactly what you want, what you need. Looking down at her blonde curls, you vow to never take her for granted again.

A doctor finally arrives. "John Winchester?"

You all stand, and Dad steps forward. "Yeah. What's going on? Is she okay?"

"She will be. She had severe dehydration and a reasonably high temperature, both of which are currently being treated. We're going to keep her in for a few days to get her fluids right up and give her body a break."

"A break from what?" Sam asks. "What's wrong with her?"

"She's tired. Extremely tired. Chemo itself is exhausting, but the vomiting that comes with it can be outright gruelling on the body and mind. We're putting her onto a strong anti-nausea medication, too, and that will help keep her stomach calm. Once she's managed to keep a couple of solid meals down, we can send her home."

A sigh of relief seems to go around the room, and you sink back onto your chair. You know this isn't over, not by a long shot - she still has cancer, after all - but this is the first time she's ended up in hospital because of it, and you swear to do your best to make sure it's the last.

"Can we see her?" Dad asks, and the doctor nods.

"Only one of you at a time, though."

Dad goes to see her, and when he comes back, Sam's practically bouncing in his seat to get to her, but he won't leave without your consent. You want to see Mom, too, a lot, but you nod at Sam. You can wait a few more minutes.

And it's not at all because the last time you saw her she had just shaved all her hair off.

Honestly.

But then Sam comes back and you're beginning to freak out, but you shove your phone at Jo, knowing you're not allowed to take it in with you, and stand up.

"You okay?" she asks, quietly enough that no one else hears.

"Yep." It's a lie, but she lets you away with it.

Mom smiles when you step into her room, and she looks sick. Pale, gaunt, tired … you hate yourself for thinking it, but she looks like she's suffering from cancer.

You push that thought away, though, and go to sit on the chair next to her bed.

"How are you doing, darling?"

You take her hand and try not to stare at her head. "Shouldn't I be asking you that?"

"I'm fine, I just need to take better care of myself." She pauses and stares at you. "You were right to be worried when you and Sam walked in on me being sick. It's all very normal from the chemo, but I still should have let my doctor know."

You shrug. "You're doin' better now, though. That's what matters, right?"

"Yes, but, Dean, I also need to apologise for what happened the other night."

"Mom -"

"That was something you didn't need to see, Dean, and I'm very sorry it happened. It was bound to happen sooner or later, but it shouldn't have been in front of you."

"Mom, stop." You run a hand through your hair, and immediately feel guilty for it, considering. "It's okay, okay? I'm just glad you weren't alone."

She smiles. "Me too. As much as I wish you hadn't seen that, I'm glad I had you there. You were very strong for me."

You smirk. "Number One Son, right?"

"Number one equal." She squeezes your hand once more, but her eyes are getting heavy. You wait a minute, maybe two, and she's fast asleep.

And it's warm in her room. Really warm. Either that or you're flushed and shaky and in desperate need of some fresh air before you burst into tears at your mom's bedside. You leave her room, closing the door gently behind you, and wave Jo off when you walk past the waiting room to the exit doors.

**Fact: Priorities, man.**

It's cold out, white puffs of air leaving your mouth with each breath you take, and you pull your jacket tighter around you as you sit on the bench outside.

Your mind is a blur, and you really don't know what to think or how to feel. You're relieved that Mom's going to be okay, but you don't know for sure that she's going to be okay in the long run. You're pleased Sam and Ellen and Jo are there, because you're not sure how the hell you and Dad could manage this alone, but you're already dreading the day Sam goes back to college. You're still recovering from Sam's phone call that morning, because, in all honesty, it had scared the shit out of you.

And you miss Cas; you miss his voice, his scent, his strong body pressed against yours, and it's stupid and dumb and you should know better, but you wish he was there with you.

"Hello, Dean."

You look up, pretty sure you're going crazy, but nope, there's Cas, standing right in front of you, having materialised out of nowhere. He's in jeans and a zip-up hoodie, his carry bag over one shoulder, as usual. And he looks so good - so handsome and so solid - but there's something off about him, something drained and worn out.

Seeing him makes your heart thump and your palms sweat and causes a sick feeling to crawl its way through your skin.

"What are you doing here?" And, yeah, you sound accusatory, but you have fair reason.

"Jo told me about your mother. I'm very sorry."

"Jo told you? How the hell - no. She did not call you. It's possible that she's more pissed at you than I am, so there's no way she would have called you."

"She didn't. I actually called her … well, I called you, but she picked up."

Right, because you gave your phone before going into see Mom and never bothered to get it back. You let your mind skip over the part where _Cas called you_ , because you're not willing to look too far into that.

"That still doesn't explain why you're here."

He sits next to you, closer than you'd like but still not close enough, and clasps his hands between his knees. "Balthazar knows about you."

Your heart leaps, but you don't get excited - partly because you don't let yourself, and partly because you're pretty fucking bitter.

"Oh yeah? What happened, he find the texts I sent you and kick you out?"

Despite your scorn Cas remains calm. "No. I told him I had been sleeping with someone else."

"I bet he took that well."

"He was angry, yes, but then he forgave me. Said he knew he had been difficult lately, that if I swore it meant nothing and would never happen again, he could forgive me and we could try again, make more of an effort to get our relationship back on track."

Your heart sinks and you feel sick and why the fuck is Cas telling you this stuff? "Right."

"But I told him that couldn't happen seeing as I'm in love with the person I've been seeing behind his back."

You pause at that, no snappy comeback available. All you've got is a thudding heart, sweaty palms, and an awful lump in your throat that you refuse to give in to. You clench your jaw and look at him. He's staring at you, head tilted, eyes kind and remorseful.

"You mean that?"

"That I love you?" He raises an eyebrow and chuckles softly. "It always amazes me how surprised you are to hear of my feelings for you, but … I suppose I haven't exactly been clear in showing you how I feel, have I?"

"No exactly, no."

"I'm sorry," he says, voice soft. "I'm so very sorry. I shouldn't have left the other night. I shouldn't have left, ever."

You take a long breath and move away a little. "What do you want me to say, Cas? That's it's okay? Because it's really not."

"I know it's not, and I don't expect you to say anything. I'm fairly certain I'm days too late in fixing the mess I made, but, Dean, I have to try." He pauses to collect himself, and you look at anything but him because you're weak and angry and his timing sucks. "I was so angry when I left your apartment that night, so angry with you for telling me all these things I knew but couldn't bring myself to face."

You sigh. "Shit, Cas, do we really have to do this?" Because it's getting a little too chick-flick for your liking.

"I think we really do. Don't you?"

And, yeah, you do, but that doesn't mean you _want_ to. "I just … I don't have a lot of time, okay? My mom's up there, and -"

"I'll be quick, I promise."

You fidget. You feel ill at the idea of hearing whatever he has to say, knowing it will all delve far deeper than you'd like, but, even more, you know you can't not hear. You know that, if you don't hear him out now, you'll spend forever wondering.

You shrug, resigned but distant. "Okay."

He takes a long, steady breath, then continues. "I went home that night annoyed with you, then I fought with Balthazar because I was annoyed with you, then I went to bed, so set in my decision that we were over - that we were over because you had been a complete asshole."

"Hey -"

"And then I couldn't sleep, and I lay awake all night because I knew what a mistake I had made," he carries on quickly. "I spent my night missing you, hating myself for leaving, feeling sick to my stomach and absolutely heartbroken that we were done."

It's a long few minutes before you can say anything to that, and in those few minutes you wonder why it's taken him this long to call, why it had to take him so long to realise that, why he couldn't have figured all this out instead of leaving. Your anger grows, but your coldness lessens because you want so badly to believe him.

"So, what? You told Balthazar?"

"Yes. Then I left and I've been staying with my brother the last few days, taking the time to clear my head."

"Right."

"Did I take too long?"

"Too long for what?" you ask, playing dumb.

"To come back." He tries to put himself in your line of vision, and doesn't speak again until you meet his gaze. "Dean, I want to fix this. I want to be with you and only you."

"Oh."

He places his hand on your arm. "Do you still want to be with me?"

"I … shit, Cas, you can't just ask things like that."

"I'll never know if I don't ask. Am I too late, Dean? Do you still want me?"

"Fuck," you mutter, and rub both hands over your face a few times. Finally, you look at him, and your mom is in the hospital, and if that's not reason enough to be honest, to take a chance, to live your goddamn life … "Fuck, Cas, you know I do, but …"

"But I fucked up."

"Yeah."

He uses his free hand to turn your face towards him, strokes his thumb along your lower lip, and it makes your breath shudder. "Dean, I left Balthazar for you. He gave me the opportunity to stay, but I chose to go. I know I'm late, and I'm so incredibly sorry for that, but I _chose_ you."

You look at him and you know he's telling the truth. You don't know how you know, but you know - you know he'll do everything he can to fix this, you know it's over with Balthazar, and you know that all he wants is you.

"I know, Cas. I know."

"All I'm asking for is another chance. I know it will take time, that things won't go straight back to how they were, but …"

"But?" And, yeah, you're totally giving into those blue eyes of his.

"You said you need me, and I need you, too. Dean … you're everything to me. These last few days without you have been hell, and I know I don't deserve you, but please, please give me another chance. Please forgive me."

You let out a low breath and pull away. "Cas, I - I dunno, man."

"But that's not a _no_ , is it?" He's smiling, sweet and hopeful, and you give him half a smile back.

"No, I guess it's not." And it's not, because you want to forgive Cas. Your own stubborn pride won't let you do it immediately, but you want to forgive him because you want to be with him. You want what he's offering, the relationship with him you've been after for weeks now, and you know the only way to get that is by forgiving him.

You're just not sure you can do it yet.

"That's … that's good," he says, tentative "I deserve your anger, Dean, and a lot worse, but I'm going to do whatever it takes to make this up to you, to be who you deserve, to earn your trust again."

You let out a long breathe and say nothing to that, because Cas' words are nice, and it's good to hear them, but you almost can't stand the guilt in his eyes, his desperate pleading for your forgiveness. He pulls his hand away from your face, and you realise it's probably time to stop staring.

"Would you like some time to think about it?" he asks.

And you want to say no because you're not a girl, because you don't want to think about it, because you want him to touch you again. But still, you need time. "Uh, maybe?"

He nods. "Of course. But there's one more thing before I go. I'm not showing you this to get in your good books; I honestly just wanted to show you."

You wait as he opens his bag and pulls out a manila folder. "What's that?"

"It's my final piece of art for class, the one we all had to give to Pamela." He pauses, spreads his hand over the folder. "I searched her out yesterday and asked for it back early so I could show you it."

"What it is?"

He hands it to you, and you don't know why you're so goddamn nervous because you don't for a second believe he actually drew your cock, but your heart rate increases and you hold your breath as you open the folder.

And inside is cream, yellow, and white coloured pencils blended together to make long, thick, curly golden hair. You stare at it for a long while, the messy braid running across the back, the dark-blonde strands woven in and out, the barely-visible profile of who the hair belongs to …

"Cas." You breathe his name, not sure you can do much more than that, because you know what this is, who this is.

But he says it anyway. "It's your mother's hair. I don't know if you remember, but you told me about her illness the day before our drawings were due. When I got home that night all I could see was her beautiful smile, her beautiful eyes … and her beautiful hair."

"Shit."

"And I couldn't sleep," he continues. "Not until I'd drawn her hair."

You remember your conversation in class that last night. "That's why you were up all night? Drawing this?"

"Yes. And I wanted to show you before …"

You look at him. "Before what?"

"Before I gave it to her. I - I didn't want to overstep, or upset her, but I thought she might like it …"

You nod. "Yeah. Yeah, Cas, she'd love it."

He smiles and moves as close as he as can. "Do you like it?"

"I love it." And you really, really do.

He rests his chin on your shoulder. "Do you still like me?" And he sounds so unsure, like he really believes you might say no.

You lower your head, close your eyes, let the warmth of his close skin overpower you. "Yeah, Cas. Yeah, I do."

**Fact: Cas … he's okay.**

You haven't seen him since his grand declaration of love Monday morning, but Thursday lunchtime you're waiting for him outside the hospital, in the same spot he found you three days earlier. Bobby let you skip out a little early, and Cas, who seems very eager to please, had quickly agreed to meet you.

He calls you every night, and every night you answer. So far that's the extent of your relationship with him, and you're currently okay with that. You miss him and you want him, and what happened the week before is still fresh in your mind, but knowing he's not with Balthazar, knowing he chose you, makes things a little easier.

And a hell of a lot harder, because all you really want is to have him with you, all the time.

When you went back inside the hospital Monday morning, Jo had looked at you terrified, clearly wondering if Cas had turned up and, if he _had_ , had she done the wrong thing. You let her sweat it out for two hours before telling her to relax, that she probably did you both a favour, because telling Cas what was going on had resulted in him turning up at the most perfect time.

He ditched you when you needed him the most, but then he came back, and you needed him a hell of a lot then, too.

You scowl at the ground and kick a pebble, vowing to never say aloud the stupid things you think.

"Dean!" You look up and Cas is hurrying toward you. "Sorry I'm late, there was in incident at the children's craft table with paste and a copy of _The Outsiders_."

"Ponyboy doin' okay?" you ask, resisting the urge to hug him or kiss him or touch him in some inappropriate way.

"Unfortunately, no. I had to quickly order a new book before I left."

You nod and stand up straight. "Look, you sure you wanna do this, man? I mean, you don't have to."

He frowns at you. "Of course I want to. Even before we ended things I had intended to give this to her."

"Oh. Okay. Cool."

When Mom sees Cas her whole face lights up, and then she blushes, tenderly touching her head.

"Oh, Dean, I wish you had told me you were bringing company today."

You scoff that away, but Cas smiles and goes to stand next to her. "You're looking wonderful, Mrs. Winchester. I trust you're feeling much better?"

"Yes, yes." She reaches out to grab his hand. "And I must say I'm very pleased to see the two of you together."

Cas blushes at her words, and it sends a thrill of want and heat and affection through you, but still, you're bitter and hurt and angry.

"I told you, Mom, we're just friends."

Mom and Cas both look at you; Mom looks unconvinced, while Cas looks … hurt. You look away, unable to meet his gaze.

"I have something for you, Mrs. Winchester," he says, and if he is hurt then he sure doesn't sound it.

"I'm sure I've told you before to call me Mary."

"Yes well …" He opens his carry bag and pulls out the folder, then he looks at you, unsure. You nod, because you don't doubt for a moment that your mom will love it. He nods back and looks at Mom. "I wanted to give you this. I drew it a few weeks back, for our final art class."

She smiles, confused, and takes the folder from him, and when she opens it she doesn't do much more than stare. Cas shifts, more nervous than you've seen him in a while, and you bite your lip, wondering if maybe you were wrong, maybe she won't love it, maybe this is a huge mistake.

But then she smiles, her whole face lights up, and she strokes her fingers across the drawing, seemingly in awe.

"Cas, this is …"

He shuffles on his feet. "It's you. Your hair."

She shakes her head. "It's beautiful."

"So are you, Mrs. Winchester, with or without hair, but at least this way, you'll always have a version of it."

Tears spring up then, and you step forward. "Mom?"

She waves you off. "This is just so lovely. _So_ lovely."

"I'm glad you like it," Cas says.

"I love, it, Cas. Thank you very much."

And you can tell she's being honest, because you haven't seen her this at ease in weeks, and you haven't seen her this relaxed about the topic of her hair since before the cancer, and the fact that Cas did this, that Cas made your mom smile like that … it's damn near enough to make you forgive every time he left you.

You leave not long later, both of you needing to actually eat lunch before heading back to work, and you're feeling really damn good.

You clap Cas on the shoulder and smile at him. "That went better than I even thought it would. You made her freakin' day, man. Probably her week."

He frowns at you. "Dean, I know I don't deserve much, but do you think you will ever forgive me?"

"Dude. What are you talking about?"

"I'm - I'm talking about the fact that I'm willing to do whatever it takes to make things up to you, Dean - I mean it, I'll do _anything_ \- but you just told your mother that we're _just friend_. I know we haven't defined what we are now, and that I said I'd give you time to think about it, but I thought we were more than … just friends."

"Cas …" You stop and swallow heavily, not sure what to say.

"I'm just saying that, if you're not going to be able to forgive me, then you need to tell me now, so … well, so I can get out before I get hurt."

You step back. "Throwing my own words back in my face, huh?"

"No." He reaches forward and threads his fingers with yours. "Just now understanding from experience what you were saying."

"Right." And, of course, you get it.

"I love you, Dean, and I'll do whatever it takes to make this work … if you'll let me." He squeezes your fingers and you look at him. "I know I don't deserve it, but please, _please_ let me. I'll do anything."

"Yeah." You smile slightly. "Yeah, Cas, I know."

He smiles and when he drops your hand, he drops the subject with it. "I need to get back to work; we've got another class coming in this afternoon, and I still have to convince Garth that the sock puppet isn't always necessary."

You frown at that, but it disappears when he leans close and presses his forehead to yours.

"Call me tonight?"

"Okay."

And this time when you watch him walk away, watch him leave you, you have no doubts that, if you let him, he'll come back.

**Fact: Cas tries. He really does.**

Cas takes you out to dinner Saturday night. On a date. And, as much as you'd like to pretend otherwise - especially if Jo were to ever find out - you can't deny that it _is_ a date. You dress nice, and he's dressed nice when he picks you up, and throughout the entire drive to the restaurant he tells you how pleased you are that you agreed to this, how it's going to be the most perfect first date, how he expects nothing except for you to have a good time.

The restaurant is fancy and expensive and definitely not your kind of place … or Cas', if his awkwardness is anything to go by. But you go with it, because your table is booked and there's a bottle of nice wine waiting and there are even flowers on the table. And when you see all this, Cas looks at you out of the corner of his eye, and you know he did this, know he went to all this effort for you.

So you smile, tell him the flowers are nice, and drink the wine.

As soon as you're both sitting and the hostess moves away, he begins.

"Dean, I just wanted to tell you again how sorry I am. I - I made such a huge mistake, but I can assure you that it will never happen again, okay?"

You nod, and you're still dealing with what happened, but you believe him. "Okay, Cas."

He smiles, lets out a relieved sigh, and changes the subject. "Did I tell you how good you look tonight? That shirt is exceptionally nice on you."

"Uh, yeah, you did." A couple of times, actually. "Thanks. You look good, too."

He shrugs. "I know you like suits, so …"

So he wore a suit for you. You take a slow, deep breath. "It's nice, Cas. Really."

A waiter turns up, and, as far as you're concerned, he couldn't have better timing because awkward. He hands you a menu as Cas automatically orders another bottle of wine, and you're almost certain he has the wine list memorised and is ordering the most expensive bottle on it.

You say nothing, read your menu, try not to frown at the food selection - because where's a steak when you need one? - and eventually just order the same pasta dish as Cas.

"You could have had the lobster," he says, and what was originally the most awkward date of your life has officially turned into the most cliché.

"Um, it's cool. I like pasta."

Silence follows, and you can see Cas trying to desperately think of something to say - whether it be more compliments, more apologies, more giving of whatever you want …

"There's something I need to tell you," he says, and your stomach drops, because forgiving him might take some time, but the trust is going to take even longer.

"Okay."

"I saw Balthazar today. I went to our old place to collect the rest of my belongings. Nothing happened, but I wanted to be honest with you. Cards on the table, right?"

Guilt floods through you, and you're not sure if it's deserved or not. "I almost hooked up with some guy on Friday night," you say, and Cas pales. "I mean, nothing happened! I got drunk, disgustingly so, and he slobbered on my neck a little, tried to cop a feel, but … it just wasn't right." _Wasn't you_ , you want to say.

"Nothing happened?"

"I barely even looked at the guy. Definitely didn't touch him."

"Well, I suppose I would deserve it if you had," he says, so you decide to change the subject.

"Uh, my mom. Said was released from the hospital today, and she called me this afternoon … she wants to invite you to brunch tomorrow." Actually, she had wanted to make sure it was okay for her to invite Cas for lunch, but you insisted on being the one to invite him. That way, if the invite came from you, you could always go back on it.

Cas shifts in his chair. "Really?"

"Yes. I said that I might be seeing you tonight - just casually - and that I'd ask. So, uh, you wanna come?"

"Dean, I … I would love to, but I won't go if you don't want me to. After everything that's happened … Dean, I - I'm just so sorry for how things turned out. If I'd just made better decisions earlier, perhaps me being invited to brunch wouldn't be such a big deal -"

"Cas, man." He looks at you, eyes wide and … scared. "It's cool. It's just brunch."

"So, I should come?"

"Totally."

"Okay. If you want me to." He looks nervous and unsure. "But, Dean, please believe me when I tell you how sorry I am, how much I wish I could make this better -"

"Shit, Cas. Would you stop?"

"Stop?"

"Stop apologising. Stop giving me compliments. Stop trying to make up for what happened by not being who you are!"

"I'm not sure I know what you're talking about."

"I'm talking about all of this, Cas - the suit, the constant apologies, the fucking restaurant. Look at that plate." You point to the table closest, not giving a shit who hears or sees you. "The waiter just brought that out, and look how little food is on it compared to how much it probably costs. I don't know about you, man, but I could eat a ten dollar pizza and be more full."

He smiles, and it's the first easy motion he's made all night. It loosens something in your chest, and you continue.

"You don't have to impress me, Cas. I'm here."

"But you haven't forgiven me. You don't trust me."

"Maybe not yet, but I'm trying, okay?" And this is so much more than you want to be saying to anyone ever. It's … _talking_. About _feelings_. "And acting like someone you're not while treating me like someone I'm not isn't going to make things go any faster. Telling me you deserve to have me hook up with some other guy isn't going to make things better.

"Okay." He does that head tilt you're so fond of. "So what do you suggest?"

"My place," you say immediately, and you know it's dangerous territory, but even if you don't fully trust Cas yet, you trust yourself not to go there yet. "We'll order some pizza, watch some movies."

"That … Dean, that sounds like the best date ever."

Once home, you change into jeans and a t-shirt, and Cas borrows some clothes to do the same. It's better, easier, and once the pizza arrives, you grab your _Back to the Future_ trilogy, and prepare to give Cas another lesson in movies he should have been watching for years.

You don't cuddle beneath the blanket like last time, or even sit that close together, but you share pizza and Coke, and laugh together and Cas laughs at you every time you quote in time to the movie.

He falls asleep just as the second movie gets confusing, his head against your shoulder, feet curled up next to him. And, instead of waking him, or even moving him and going to your own bed, you continue to watch the movie until you fall asleep beside him.

**Fact: It's not a crush.**

You're in love with Cas. You are hopelessly, blissfully, devastatingly in love with Cas. And it's kind of pathetic.

You don't really care, though. You don't care that you smile when you think about it and how totally lame that is. You don't care that his voice does things to you that a voice alone simply shouldn't do, and over the phone at that. You don't care that it kind of hurts when he's not around so a part of you figures he should just be around all the time.

But you do care that he's about to meet your family. You're entire family. Because when you invited him to come to brunch, you didn't tell him it was supposed to be a sign, a way of telling him things and feelings without having to actually say them.

"Are you sure it's okay that I'm here?" he asks, sitting next to you in the passenger seat of the Impala. Waking up next to him, for the first time ever, had been good. Not awkward, not confusing, just good and easy and everything you've wanted for a long time now.

"Yeah, it was Mom's idea to invite you, remember?" When his face falls, you quickly correct yourself. "I want you here, too, though. Really. It was just her idea."

He nods. "Dean, if you're not ready to introduce me -"

"No. It's cool." You grin at him. "C'mon, I'm starving."

"Very well."

He follows you out of the car, and you hope like hell he can't see that you're totally freaking out. You know it shouldn't be too bad - after all he's met Mom and that couldn't have gone better seeing as she's been trying to convince you to date him since; and he already knows Jo, who did help you sort things out with him in a roundabout way.

But then there's Dad and Sam and Ellen and Bobby, and, yeah, you're freaking out.

You knock on the door, your awareness of Cas behind you heightened. He's close and he's taking liberties, his fingers pressing gently against your lower back. Part of you wants to tell him to stop, just to make a point, but you like it far too much to even really consider it.

Mom opens the door, and she's smiling and she's wearing a wig - shorter than her own hair, straighter than her own hair, and not quite the right shade of blonde, but none of that matters, because she looks so damn good that you can't help yourself.

"Wow."

"I'll take that as a compliment," she says, and hugs you. Then she moves to Cas and hugs him, too. "I'm so glad you could come, Cas! I've shown everyone the drawing you made for me, and it's had nothing but wonderful comments."

Cas smiles and lowers his head. "That's very nice to hear. I'm glad you like it."

"I love it. Now, come in, come in."

You glance back at Cas, and he has this troubled look on his face. You're not sure what to make of it, if he's just nervous about meeting your family, but you give him a grin and nod in the direction of the kitchen.

"Come on."

Everyone's in there, all around the kitchen table; Ellen and Bobby are in deep conversation, Dad's helping Mom into her chair, and Sam and Jo are arguing loudly about which is the best _Mighty Duck_ movie. They're all in their usual seats, but there's an extra seat next to yours, and the fact that it fits perfectly makes you feel all kinds of things you can't name or describe.

"Hey, Dean," Sam calls out as soon as he sees you, and, of course, everyone else stops what they're doing to look at you. Any other Sunday and you'd barely get a hello from anyone, but clearly _someone_ let the whole world know you were bringing a guest. Sam grins. "Who's your friend?"

You scowl at him, then look at your Mom who's smiling softly at you, no expectation on her face at all. Then you look at Cas, and he's staring at the floor, hands shoved deep into his pockets. And you just know.

"This is Cas," you say, and his shoulder slump a little. "My boyfriend."

Amidst the wolf whistles from Sam and Jo, and the happy laughter from Mom, Cas looks up and gives you the kind of smile that makes your heart thump, that makes you grin back, that makes everything that might one day happen okay. Mom still has cancer, and Sam won't be sticking around forever, but you just know that, whatever you have to face, Cas will be next to you.

The End.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading. This was my first long Destiel fic, and it was so fun to write. I hope you guys like it!


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